And Nobody Was Surprised: A Lawndale Story
by Witch'sPocketWatch
Summary: Time flies when you're harboring a secret longing and have buried your feelings so deeply you're paying Beijing real estate prices. Five years after graduation, Daria and Jane must unearth their long-hidden affections and maybe even share them...not only with each other, but with Lawndale. Femslash Daria/Jane. *Daria, Jane & the gang aren't my characters but MTV's, of course*
1. Homecoming

Chaper 1: Homecoming

The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, floral and powdery as an elderly matron's bosomy hug. Daria shifted in her squeaky funeral parlor chair and looked up, despite herself, to scan the room for a familiar black asymmetrical haircut. When she felt the pit of loneliness and regret in her gut threaten to spill over again, she quickly picked up her program with clammy hands to study the life and times of Timothy O'Neill for the seventh or eighth time.

Since Daria's high school graduation five years earlier, the macramé-loving teacher with a startling amount of Karl Marx knowledge had transitioned into a role more suited to his love of open weeping—seventh-grade school counselor. His whimsical office was filled with bean bag chairs, whale songs, and lonely junior high students who really did want to hear that it was "okay to cry." When Mr. O'Neill was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, heartbroken students filled his small apartment with handmade cards.

Today, Mr. O'Neill's adoring students crept into the room in small, silent groups as a gently lilting Celtic tune flowed from the speakers. Several of O'Neill's orange-robed friends from the local Hare Krishna group hovered on either side of the doorway, smiling at the children and handing each of them a gift bag thoughtfully made by the departed before his passing. Daria watched several visibly confused youngsters sit down with their bags and cautiously pick through them as if expecting a weaponized stress ball or Death itself to pop out. What they found instead were a grief activity booklet complete with stickers; an assortment of calming herbal teas; a book on puberty entitled _That's Probably Normal, Right?_ ; and sticky notes with puppies on them, along with instructions to add self-affirming messages and secure them to the bathroom mirror.

Daria allowed herself an affectionate smirk and shrugged off her navy-blue blazer, revealing the light gray button-down beneath. _Well Mr. O'Neill, the Misery Chick has arrived. While I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, I'm glad to see you found your place in the world—even if that place was full of bean-bag chairs saturated with the tears of pre-teens. The fact that you invited them in to share their angst instead of quietly closing your office door and buying a one-way boat ticket to Uruguay makes you a better person than I._

"Well, Daria Morgendorffer," remarked a nasally voice behind her. "Nice to see you here."

Daria looked over her shoulder to take in the lavender blouse and semi-permanent scowl of Janet Barch, who stood beside the pant-suited and uncharacteristically silent Ms. Li. The young writer's usual monotone was colored with genuine sorrow as she replied, "Ms. Barch, I was very sorry to hear about Mr. O'Neill."

Janet gave a rueful smile and reached out to squeeze Daria's shoulder before walking several rows up the aisle with Ms. Li, where they took their seats.

Just as Daria was turning her attention to a careful study of her black leather boots, she heard a voice that made her chest feel like birds attempting flight with their wing-tips pinned to the ground.

It was Jane.


	2. Calling All Meteors

Chapter 2: Calling All Meteors

Daria's best friend in the ever-expanding universe stood just outside the doorway with their formerly contentious ex-in-common, Tom Sloane, and Jane's brother Trent. The three of them were conversing with a highly animated Anthony DeMartino. It seemed the history teacher with the pulsating right eye took issue with almost every aspect of his friend's funeral arrangements, from the photos in the program (featuring his on- and off-again girlfriend, Janet Barch) to the lack of Timothy's favorite flowers (yellow tulips). Balling his fists and working up a sweat, he seethed, "I guess it was too much TROUble to call a FLORist two towns away so this anGELic man could get a few TULIPS by his COFFin!"

Daria saw Tom quietly speaking to Mr. DeMartino in what must have been a magically soothing manner—the highly-caffeinated teacher's shoulders slowly began to slump as he nodded with tears in his eyes. Suddenly he engulfed Tom in what looked like a spine-cracking hug and burst into shuddering sobs.

Feeling like the worst sort of eavesdropper, Daria hurriedly turned around in her seat. She was concentrating on looking anywhere but at Mr. O'Neill's eco-friendly wicker casket when she heard footsteps approach her chair.

"Okay, Morgendorffer, nowhere to run—just ask Mr. O'Neill. Are you going to scoot over or am I going to sit in your skinny lap and force you to talk to me?"

Daria took a deep breath and looked up into Jane's questioning blue eyes. "Is there a third option, such as me crawling into Mr. O'Neill's vegan Styx-crosser and closing the lid?"

"I'll let you use your excellent analytical skills to decode my facial expression and arrive at your own answer."

Daria wordlessly moved one seat over.

As Jane was taking her seat, Daria saw Tom and Trent walk up the aisle supporting a weeping Anthony DeMartino between them. Both Tom and Trent had shortened their haircuts and diversified their wardrobes over the past few years, and today the former wore a beige sport coat while the latter was in a black sweater with a white collared shirt beneath. Tom shepherded the graying educator to a chair and then gave Trent's hand a quick squeeze before sitting down himself.

Jane's voice was soft, full of pain, and very near Daria's ear as she pleaded, "Tell me what I did to make you ignore my phone calls for _two months_ , Daria."

The Misery Chick had never felt more at home with the title as she sat there, wracked with guilt and staring at her best friend looking beautiful in a plum cashmere V-neck sweater, gray pencil skirt, and knee-high black boots. _You heard the woman, Morgendorffer—nowhere to run. You can either pray for a well-timed meteor strike or figure out a way to tell Jane the truth._

Daria shifted her gaze to her lap, closed her eyes, and asked, "Do you remember…at Trent and Tom's wedding, when you were dancing to The Doors?"

Just as the dark-haired artist opened her mouth to answer, the Indigo Girls song coming from the speakers cut out and an orange-robed Hare Krishna standing next to Mr. O'Neill's casket turned to face the crowd. Jane squeezed her best friend's forearm and whispered, "Saved by the bell-ringer. Will you go for pizza with me after and tell me what's wrong?"

The pale brunette met Jane's eyes and answered, "Of course I will."


	3. Going to See the King

Chapter 3: Going to See the King

Mr. O'Neill's memorial service passed with the expected tears and heartstring-tugging stories, as well as a wholly unexpected rendition of "Ave Maria" performed by a visibly shaken Angela Li. To Daria, the most startling thing about the funeral was the lightning-bolt that went through her body when Jane, overcome with emotion, gripped her hand and laid her head on her shoulder.

When the last hug had been given and Daria had abandoned hope of getting ex-cheerleader Brittany Taylor's mascara out of her shirt, the pair stood blinking in the light of a warm June afternoon in silence.

"Heeeeyy Janie. Do you and Daria wanna join me and Tom for pizza? I'm buying." It seemed Trent had materialized at Jane's right shoulder while the old friends were desperately trying to find a life-raft of witty commentary to save them from the excruciating waters of awkwardness.

Trent's relieved sister answered, "Yep! Nothing like a greasy slice to take your mind off your own mortality."

"Or to hasten the inevitable," deadpanned Daria.

Trent gave a raspy laugh that became a cough as they walked across the parking lot toward Tom, who was leaning against the aging, rattling Jaguar he refused to give up. Daria was reasonably certain that when Tom finished his Doctorate in Philosophy and landed a professorship at a university where even the water fountains were named after alumni, it would be this belching steel dragon that delivered him to the foot of the ivory tower.

A tiny smile appeared on Daria's face as she watched Tom open the passenger-side door for Trent. It had been a shock when the scruffy singer and his sarcastic consort with the Disney prince hair-do had shared their relationship with the world a year and a half ago. They had already been together for six months at that point, beginning with an unexpected meeting at a Bar Mitzvah played by Mystik Spiral and progressing through many deep and surprising conversations involving the nature and definition of "selling out" (Tom argued Trent hadn't), the purpose of life, and classical literature (in which Trent was bewilderingly well-versed). It turned out Trent was the Lane that Tom needed, and their first kiss in the chilly night air outside a coffee shop could not have felt more natural. As expected, the Lane parents took the news with the unflappable placidity that comes from a continual hash high and afterwards took the young men out for celebratory donuts. The Sloanes, on the other hand, initially responded with the uncomfortable silence of WASPS performing complex mental calculations to determine the social impact of their son's gayness. With time, they came around.

Trent slid into the passenger seat and yanked his creaky, uncooperative door shut. Daria's lingering smile faded when she realized she would have to climb into the back seat with Jane. She took a deep breath and brushed the non-existent wrinkles from her blazer ( _smooth, Morgendorffer_ ) as she walked past Trent and then gripped the door handle. _Like ripping off a bandage…made of duct-tape…over an oozing bullet wound…on a hairy simian._ She opened the door and cautiously climbed in, keeping a solid three feet between herself and her frighteningly bewitching best friend.

Jane gave her terrified companion a sly sidelong glance and then scooted just close enough to nudge her and mutter, "Careful, Daria, we might breathe the same air if you're not careful." Daria's eyes twinkled behind her glasses as she turned to answer her friend, but when she took a breath, the dusky plum sweetness of Jane's perfume stopped her in her tracks. _Oh for the love of the many pagan and Hindu gods, please let a pizza shop materialize outside the window of this ancient juggernaut immediately._

Daria mumbled a noncommittal reply, and the two friends rode in silence for the few minutes it took to reach their beloved Pizza King. The four of them took the booth across from the windows—the sea-green sanctuary where Jane and Daria had spent so many after-school hours trading sarcastic commentary on the world they were escaping together. Daria found herself sitting on the same side of the table as Jane after her artsy friend elbowed Trent and told him he'd better sit next to his new husband, because otherwise "what the hell were all those sparkly parades for?"

Two different types of pizza were soon agreed upon following a minimal amount of affectionate bickering between Trent and Tom. As they waited for their pies and Daria hosted a sporadic internal debate regarding how to share her story with Jane, the friends caught up on the events of the two months since Trent and Tom's wedding. Jane was still dividing her time between her own art and the make-your-own-pottery studio where she'd been working since leaving Boston Fine Arts College in her Junior year (the studio was called "Make My Clay" and featured a delightfully cheesy spaghetti Western facade). Tom was in graduate school, and Trent was giving guitar lessons to alienated teens when he wasn't playing weddings and Quinceaneras with Mystik Spiral. Daria was still sniffing out corruption for the small Boston newspaper where she'd interned and then taken a position immediately after college.

When the pizzas arrived, the topic shifted to memories of Mr. O'Neill and the strange little world that was Lawndale. Laughs were shared, time passed quickly, and before they knew it the grease had congealed on the few uneaten slices between them. Daria looked up to find Tom giving his husband the kind of look that belies a shared secret before he suddenly said, "Well, I hate to be the old man here, but I've got a philosophy paper and a cat who needs his insulin waiting for me in Boston."

"Aaw come on, we practically just sat down!" Jane laughed. She cocked an eyebrow at Daria and wryly quipped, "I always knew my brother would run off to Boston with a philosopher."

Trent replied in his characteristic mellow rasp, "If you predicted this one, Janey, you deserve an award. Like an extremely diabetic cat, maybe."

Tom cracked up, all dimples and love, as he threw an arm around Trent and buried his face in his shoulder. When his laughter subsided, the newlyweds offered Jane and Daria a ride home and then hugged them goodbye after they refused. Soon the young men had driven away—one of them slightly less grungy than in his teen days and the other slightly less pretentious—and left the confused female duo in their wake. Daria made a careful study of the cheese strands on her plate until Jane simply said, "Walk?"

Daria looked up into her eyes, difficult as it was, and wrenched the word out. "Yup."


	4. Time Capsule

Chapter 4: Time Capsule

Soon the old friends were walking through a twilit Lawndale amidst a symphony of crickets and gently rustling leaves occasionally accented by a sputtering sprinkler. Jane broke the silence with a falsely cheery, "So, um, at Mr. O'Neill's funeral you said something had happened at Trent and Tom's wedding. Something about yours truly enjoying the musical stylings of Jim Morrison?"

Daria cleared her throat a bit too loudly and replied, "Right. But you're sure you wouldn't rather discuss the Iraq War or the merits of universal healthcare?"

Jane narrowed her eyes at her cheeky best friend, which was answer enough.

"Alright." Uncertainty crept into Daria's voice as she asked, "Jane, will you stick around and talk this through with me no matter what I tell you?"

Jane looked genuinely frightened as she stopped to face Daria on the sidewalk, the dying sunlight catching in her eyelashes. Daria decided if this was the last time her friend wanted to talk to her, this would be the image of her to keep. After what felt like an eternity, Jane said softly, "Daria, you know nothing could ever keep me from being your friend."

The pale brunette gave a worried smile and the two began to walk. Soon Daria's words came, slowly and with uncertain pauses at first, and then faster, until she couldn't have stopped herself if she tried. It all began with Jane dancing to The Doors' brewpub staple "L.A. Woman" at Tom and Trent's April wedding.


	5. Red Wine and 90s Nostalgia

Chapter 5: Red Wine and 90s Nostalgia

The soft haze of multicolored DJ lights pushed back the edges of enveloping darkness in the Boston pub's upstairs banquet hall, joyfully decorated tonight with white string lights and vases of purple orchids atop navy table linens. That afternoon, Jane had been her brother's "Best Sister" in his simple wedding ceremony at a gazebo in a public park. She still wore her form-fitting black pants and ruffled purple blouse, but the tuxedo jacket and top-hat fascinator had been cast off somewhere between the reception toasts and her second shot of tequila. Her best friend was her "date" for the evening and wore a long, coffee-colored evening gown with ballet flats and an up-do. The hour was late, and only a handful of Trent and Tom's closest friends remained.

At the moment, Daria and Jane were the only ones on the dance floor—a laughing Jane had dragged her reluctant friend from her seat the second she realized Charles Ruttheimer (weekend DJ and weekday computer programmer) was playing The Doors' "L.A. Woman." Now Jane had one hand on Daria's shoulder and the other clutching her Long Island Tea while she enthusiastically bobbed her head and occasionally hip-bumped her amused companion.

Daria sipped her pinot noir as she smiled and returned her friend's less-than-gentle jostles. She found herself watching Jane dance, so joyful and uninhibited. Sometimes Daria envied the artist's utter lack of composure. She took another sip of her wine just as Jane spun around to face her, tipsy and giggling, with fully half her black hair having fallen out of its tiny ponytail by this point.

 _Those poor chumps at art school didn't stand a chance, Lane. They were lucky just to hover by your light and join you for a few sad, cerebral foreign films before you moved on_. Daria gave Jane a particularly enthusiastic hip bump, sloshing her wine in the process and letting loose a short burst of laughter. _God, I was relieved every time you kicked some wannabe Warhol to the curb with your gray butt-kicking boots. Maybe too relieved…but I've analyzed and dissected all that before, innumerable times. My feelings were always firmly rooted in friendship._ Daria raised her glass and found herself taking more of a gulp than a sip of pinot noir. _And that time I was watching you paint in your studio apartment—so intense, with indigo smudged on your black tank-top and your hair falling in your eyes—it was definitely the overwhelming odor of paint thinner making me feel…odd._ Another glug of wine. _True, there's no paint thinner on the dance floor tonight that could be contributing to this feeling. So…magnetic. And you smell so damn good._ The thoroughly-terrified journalist drained her glass. _Oh, crap._

A few moments later, the song changed. Jane suddenly stopped dancing and pointed at the enormous speakers nearby, her eyes wide. "Holy shit, I love this song!"

Daria scrambled for a response. " 'Fade into You' by Mazzy Star. I always think of that 90s television commercial where the guy muses about his wife's granny panties." Jane cackled and then quickly snatched Daria's wine glass from her hand and set it on a nearby high-top table. Daria still had a shocked expression on her face when her exuberant friend wheeled to face her, slid her hands onto her shoulders, and exclaimed, "Let's do this thing junior-high dance style!"

At a loss for words, Daria gingerly placed her hands just above her tuxedoed companion's waist and joined her in the awkward waddle known to pre-adolescents everywhere. The baffled brunette looked up into Jane's face, but she was lost in the warm sea of haunting mid-nineties distortion. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit. What do I do now? I mean, besides barely holding my friend's waist like it's a priceless relic of the Ming Dynasty while my armpits accumulate terror sweat._

Swaying with her eyes closed, Jane smiled and pulled Daria closer, one palm between the writer's bare shoulder-blades and the other resting on her upper arm. Unsure what to do next, Daria closed her eyes and let the moment take her—she slipped her hands around Jane's lower back and interlaced her fingers against the purple satin. _Good God, what am I doing? Thanks a lot, red wine and 90s nostalgia._

The next few minutes passed in a warm and bewildering haze. The old friends clung to each other as the last notes faded away. Suddenly, the all-too-familiar growl of Lawndale's biggest pervert assaulted their eardrums via the high-tech speaker system. "Well, my friends," Charles purred, "I see Jane and Daria have decided to join in the Bacchanalian orgy of sensual delights. Might I add that it's about time?"

Jane's eyes popped open as she quickly stepped away from her best friend and shot a dirty look in the direction of the DJ booth. More loudly than she realized (thanks to the open bar), she fired back at Upchuck. "Not a chance, Ruttheimer. The Lane family already has enough surprise gays!"

Daria reddened as the few stragglers remaining at the dance began to laugh. Jane didn't hear her quietly excuse herself to the restroom, and the only one who saw her face as she rushed by, distraught, was Trent.

The thoroughly confused and mortified young woman was beyond thankful to find the bathroom unoccupied. She locked the door and leaned against the wall of cool tile, shakily removing her glasses and resting her face in her hands as the tears began to fall. _Why would I think Jane might possibly feel what I'm feeling? That is, if I even know what it is I'm feeling._

Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door. "Daria?" It was Jane. "Is everything okay?"

Daria took a deep, shuddering breath and held it for a moment before responding as nonchalantly as possible. "It's that damned open bar. Our ex-boyfriend and his new husband keep the booze flowing like it's a Pride Week drag brunch."

Silence on the other side of the door. Daria could perfectly picture her best friend's knitted brow—there was no way she was buying this. After a few moments, Jane responded with a very suspicious, "Okay, Daria. Find me when you come out?"

Daria cringed at the word choice and replied, "Aye-aye, Captain." _Why the hell did I say that?_

When she emerged five minutes later, Daria did find Jane. She spotted her across the dance floor, laughing with Upchuck, but found pondering their possible topics of conversation to be a completely horrifying exercise. Overwhelmed, Daria quickly made her way to the table where they'd had dinner and snatched her purse and shawl. She slipped out the doors of the banquet hall unnoticed, dashed down the steps to the pub below, and texted Jane that she'd had to leave. She was just getting into her taxi when the inevitable response came, asking if everything was alright. Daria responded in the affirmative and then leaned back into the cab's headrest, breathing a sigh of relief.

When Jane texted her a week later asking to meet for coffee, Daria truly intended to reply. She spent several hours debating her response, but eventually gave up on trying to find the right one. She told herself she would text Jane back the next day—however, work proved to be crazy and she ended up writing a story until late in the evening. Daria continued finding convenient excuses to avoid discussing the issue with her best friend until the very day of Timothy O'Neill's funeral.


	6. Purgatory

Chapter 6: Purgatory

In the soft purple dusk of Lawndale, Jane and Daria stood on a deserted sidewalk—the former staring into the distance and the latter at her shoes. They had strolled as the anxious introvert told her tale, but at its conclusion, the friends had come to a standstill. Jane cleared her throat. "Um," she said, "Do you want to come over to my parents' house for a bit? I think we need to…process this."

Daria resisted the urge to joke about the extraordinary amount of "processing" their flannel-shirted sisters were reputed to partake in and instead responded, "Of course."

The pair walked several blocks to the Lane house and entered the silent living room, where Jane immediately removed her heeled black boots with an exclamation of, "Jesus, finally! These things are terrible." Daria smiled, then remembered the enormous and possibly friendship-destroying disclosure she'd just made on their walk. Jane looked at Daria, standing there in as miserable and awkward a fashion as possible. "Casa Lane may not have a doorman or meet certain health code standards, but we do have a spot for your boots and blazer," she said gently, gesturing with an outstretched arm. Daria self-consciously wriggled out of her navy jacket and passed it to Jane before bending to unzip her boots.

The silent pair made their way up the stairs to the second floor, where they side-stepped a disturbingly life-like sculpture of a grinning goat perched atop a small mountain of severed penises. "I see your mom is still in her Sexual Nightmare Petting Zoo phase," remarked Daria.

Jane laughed. "Wait 'til you see what she made for my apartment—guaranteed to haunt your dreams. She's still in Peru for her Menopausal Mindfulness retreat."

"How about your dad?"

"He's off doing some photojournalism for Apocalypse Bunker Magazine."

To Daria's dismay, they had reached the doorway to Jane's room. As she followed her friend inside, the dread-filled waif took in her largely unchanged surroundings. The art easel and heavy maroon drapes remained, as did the olive-green walls with their colorful paintings. Jane gestured to the familiar box spring and mattress on the floor in one corner of the room and cautiously asked, "Why don't you take a load off? I think I need a quick shower—you know, try to scrub away that funeral feeling."

"That's one feeling the perfumers can skip."

Jane gave a wan smile and went to her chaotic closet to unearth some pajamas while Daria took a seat on the bed. When comfortable clothes had been located, the unsettled artist headed for the bathroom. A worried Daria watched her walk away and then flopped backward onto the mattress, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling.


	7. Stubborn Pigment

Chapter 7: Stubborn Pigment

Jane adjusted the shower's temperature until it was suitable for a lobster boil and stepped in. _Okay, where do I start? With Alison—the tattooed girl who made me debate my sexuality for the first time at art camp? I never did unravel that whole mess. Just shoveled it into the Viking ship at the back of my mind for a burning send-off._ Jane squeezed some of her mom's special-order Japanese shampoo into her hand and examined the bottle as though she could decipher the characters on it by sheer force of will. _Guess I'll never know why this stuff is black. It smells really nice, though. Not as nice as Daria smelled at Trent's wedding…what was that, sandalwood? Oh God, moving on. So, I banished Alison from my mind and never spoke to her after camp. Daria and I went off to our respective colleges, and I apparently tried to set a record for how many dopey musicians and pretentious art-snobs I could date without forming a real attachment to any of them. I do sort of wonder about that girl in my pastels class, though. I was always seeking her out in the halls while assuring myself I coveted only her punky hairdo and Thrift Shop for the Clinically Insane style. Being the expert bull-shitter I am, I excused any fluttery feelings as the after-effects of questionable cafeteria tacos._ The agitated painter scrubbed at some stubborn pigment below her left knee with a vigor signifying deep internal struggle. _These last two months without Daria have been…pure hell. Like I've been on an alien planet where I don't speak the language and there's no pizza or snark. I don't think she knows what it was like for me to go without hearing her voice for two months. I don't think she knows how incredible she looked in her satin gown at Trent and Tom's wedding. And right now she's probably lying on my bed, feeling completely terrified at the prospect of ruining our friendship—just like I am._ Jane slowly twisted the shower handle to its off position and reached for her threadbare, tie-dyed beach towel. _The thing is, I think we owe it to ourselves to figure this one out. I've never met someone like Daria, and I never will again. Our friendship is probably strong enough to withstand anything at this point._

Jane finished toweling off and slipped into her gray boxers and red t-shirt. On beholding her frightened face in the mirror, she forced a half-hearted smirk and a wink. The brave young woman who was now questioning many of the premises upon which she'd built her life took a deep breath, gathered her dress clothes from the countertop, and opened the bathroom door.


	8. Precipice

Chapter 8: Precipice

Daria was lying on her back with her head hanging off the bed and her long, brown hair pooling on the burgundy throw rug when Jane walked into the bedroom (upside-down, from Daria's perspective). Their eyes met, and the two friends spent a few moments looking at each other in silence before Jane stammered out an anxious, "Hey."

"Hey," Daria gently answered back before rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows, which she was gripping for dear life. _Alright, let's get this over with. If Jane keeps her compassionate letdown speech under ten minutes and I can make it home without scaling a utility pole and biting into a powerline, I may be able to catch the end of Sick, Sad World. But the way she's looking at me right now…I haven't seen that before. Wait, nope—there's no way in hell I am getting my hopes up on this one._

"So, I was thinking," began Jane as she dropped her funeral clothes on the burgeoning closet pile and took a few hesitant steps toward the bed. "There's no one in Boston, or in this ridiculous world for that matter, who's quite like you. And as Mr. O'Neill would confirm—if he still could—life is short." She paused, looked up at the ceiling, and took a deep breath. "The truth is that I've been avoiding certain unsettling thoughts and feelings for years now. Thoughts and feelings about…"

"Women?" Daria supplied, barely breathing now.

Nervous laughter from Jane. "Well, yeah. And, um…about you too, Daria."

The introvert on the bed had now forgotten how to breathe entirely. Jane slowly closed the distance between them with cautious footsteps, as though landmines might be lying in wait beneath the throw rug. She knelt in front of Daria and, attempting a nonchalance she definitely didn't feel, asked her best friend, "Whaddya say we give this whole Sapphic thing a whirl? Maybe we could…try a kiss?"

 _Oh good GOD._ A steadily-reddening Daria nervously pushed her glasses up her nose and licked her Mojave-dry lips. For a few moments, she had no words. Her eyes were enormous behind her lenses when she eventually answered with a small and frightened, "Yeah." Leaning ever so slowly into the silence between them, the longtime confidantes finally felt their lips meet with a sweet hesitance that soon melted into wholly enthralled adoration. If it was like anything, it was like riding your bicycle on a warm summer night with your arms thrown out and your face turned up to the limitless stars. Upon smudging Daria's glasses with her nose for a second time, Jane laughed and gently removed them. Daria smiled as she shifted and slid down onto the floor, where she and her companion fell softly into one other's embrace again. As the moon rose in the sky and the two friends grew tired, Daria accepted Jane's offer to join her in the bed ("No funny business, Morgendorffer, I swear—just fully-clothed sleep"). With Daria in a pair of borrowed pajamas, the two wrapped themselves in each other's arms and soon drifted off.


	9. New World, Old Coffee

Chapter 9: New World, Old Coffee

When morning dawned, the tangerine sun peered into Jane Lane's bed and found a tangle of pale limbs and sweetly tousled hair. The sleeping artist gently stirred, and soon her royal-blue eyes were at half-mast as she gazed upon her sleeping… _oh LORD._ Jane's eyelids snapped fully open as she first remembered the events of the night before and then realized her left hand was resting on Daria's waist, which was clad in one of the hostess's beloved pajama t-shirts featuring the obscure indie rock band Crippled Kitty. Daria's long hair had fallen over one eye, outlining her small nose and (as always) naked lips. Jane's shocked expression gave way to a small, private smile and a warm crinkling of the eyes as she observed the sleeping brunette. _In this time of great revelations, I would like to enter into the record the truly awe-inspiring number of deep-black eyelashes possessed by one Daria Morgendorffer. How the hell did I miss that? In other revelation news, she has several small freckles on her adorable nose. And I, a life-long dismisser of gooey notions, just used the word "adorable" to describe somebody's sniffer. Freya help me._ Jane scooted closer to Daria in the dawn light, slipping her arm fully around her waist.

It was then that the sleepy journalist slowly opened her eyes, and then continued opening them until she somewhat resembled a surprised owl. A delighted Jane suppressed a laugh and murmured, "Good morning, fellow sailor on Sapphic seas."

Unable to help herself, Daria let out a short burst of laughter as she reached out to brush an errant lock of hair away from Jane's eyes. Her hand came to rest on the back of her adored friend's head, and after several seconds of mutual gazing sweet enough to inspire spontaneous diabetes, the pair had their first, delicate good-morning kiss. A dopey-grinned Jane followed it up with a question and an answer: "You know what pairs well with discovering you've been lying to yourself for 23 years? Black coffee."

"Agreed," Daria sternly responded with a curt nod before playfully patting Jane's hip.

Soon the two were standing in the Lane family kitchen in their pajamas as Jane fashioned a makeshift coffee filter from toilet paper. Daria had been silently reading the side of a bright green coffee can when she piped up with, "So, this organic fair-trade coffee that supports Malaysian candlestick-makers has been expired for about six months. But it's coffee, right? How bad can it be?"

Jane donned an overblown Southern accent as she drawled, "I reckon I'd drink coffee filtered through a raccoon's behind right about now, pardner." Daria smiled and handed her the can. A short time later, the slightly-awkward duo stood leaning against the counter as they drank surprisingly good coffee from Amanda Lane's colorful, creatively warped hand-made coffee mugs. Jane stared into the dark liquid and picked out a small bit of toilet paper with her finger. _Okaaaay, here's the awkward part. I suppose it was inevitable. After all, we're eventually going to have to figure out what we…are._

The artist's reverie was interrupted by the sudden _thunk_ of Daria's coffee mug on the countertop. She looked up to see her normally sarcastic companion turning toward her with a heartbreakingly sweet hopefulness in her eyes. Jane took in Daria's mussed hair in its ponytail and her small shoulders beneath the Crippled Kitten t-shirt and was overcome with adoration. Despite her fears, she gave the terrified writer her biggest smile as she swiftly closed the small distance between them, wrapped her arms around Daria's waist, and kissed the tip of her nose. A smirk appeared on the brunette's fiercely blushing face as she slipped her arms behind Jane's neck and asked, "When are you leaving for Boston?"

"I was planning to leave by noon, but clearly all of my life choices are in question at this point."

Daria suppressed a chuckle as she glanced at the sorely neglected but miraculously functioning clock over Jane's shoulder. "It's only ten thirty. Considering the tumbleweed-strewn wasteland that is the Lane kitchen, should we walk over to the Morgendorffer stronghold? The admiral and her best swabbie are re-connecting with nature—and god knows what else—on a camping trip with their friends Willow and Coyote."

A cackle from Jane. "Oh lord! I imagine they're sleeping off the effects of the fermented berry juice as we speak."

"I'm not sure," Daria replied thoughtfully. "These days the Yeagers are less granola and more fat-free yogurt parfait. They have iPods, and those iPods are filled with Joni Mitchell albums."

"Huh." Jane smirked at her friend turned…turned _what?_ That was a question for later. "Funny how things change."


	10. Memories with a Side of Donuts

Chapter 10: Memories with a Side of Donuts

Silence and mid-morning sun filled the Morgendorffer living room as the two old friends took in its shiny new wood floors and familiar maroon sofas. When Daria nervously cleared her throat, she was sure it had been loud enough to shake loose a few of the recently-added family photos on the banana hued walls. Alas, Commune Period Helen and Jake were still holding tight next to Braces Era Quinn.

Daria snuck a sideways glance at her lanky friend, who was leaning back with her arms crossed over her white v-neck t-shirt and taking in the scene. Her battered old gray boots peeked out from the oversized black cargo pants that flooded around her feet in a manner most unfashionable for 2007. _At least some things haven't changed—I see we both continue to hold trends in roughly the same regard as rampaging, maul-happy kangaroos._

"So Helen has been getting more sappy and maternal these days, judging by the Wall o' Photos," Jane remarked. A pause, a squint, and then a shocked, "Daria! Is that a _pink sweater_ I spy on the 16-year-old version of you?"

"You try convincing my mother an olive-green jacket and combat boots go with the Summer in Kiev backdrop at Fyodor's Foto Fun."

"Did your parents have to trek to Mordor to retrieve Quinn's braces pic from a fiery pit? I can't believe she let it see the light of day."

"That was my dad. He rode valiantly into battle against Quinn and won with the argument that everyone thinks Charlize Theron is gorgeous even after her silver screen turn as a decidedly un-hot serial killer."

"Ha! How is Quinn's dental hygiene degree coming along?"

"Second time's the charm, apparently. She says she likes telling cute guys all about her yoga while their mouths are propped open and they can't interrupt."

"That's our Quinn," Jane responded wryly.

Reassured by the constant of Quinn's vanity in an ever-changing world, the confused and slightly punch-drunk duo made their way to the Morgendorffer kitchen. They soon located bagels and Jake's secret stash of donut holes (as Daria said, "Better eat the evidence before Mom sees these and delivers another three-hour PowerPoint presentation on warding off a second heart attack"). When the conversation had slowed to a creep and the final crumbs had been wiped off the old table, the two young women stood awkwardly beside the kitchen sink.

Daria hung the dishcloth over the faucet and focused intently on re-rolling the left sleeve of the button-down she'd worn to Mr. O'Neill's funeral. "I should really ditch this funeral garb before making the drive to Boston. Want to head upstairs so I can change?" Blushing fiercely at the implication of what she'd just said, Daria cringed visibly and awaited Jane's snark.

What she got instead were Jane's warm, amused smirk and complete understanding. "In one way it's weird being unable to change clothes in front of you without giving it a second thought—and in another way, it's not weird at all."

A flustered pause from Daria, followed by, "It definitely is…all those things."

Jane laughed. "Tell you what. You go ahead and change, and I'll walk to my parents' house to pack up. But, um, I was hoping…"

"Yes?"

"I was hoping you might want to have dinner at my favorite Indian place in Boston tonight. I've been meaning to take you there. And it has those cool elephant statues I was telling you about."

Daria noted Jane's hopeful expression and felt a sweet warmth overtake her. "You know I can't turn down a good pachyderm ambiance. What's the dress code like for non-elephant patrons?"

Smiling now, the wan painter replied, "I'm afraid it's a bit fancy-schmancy."

"Well then, I shall call upon my fanciest fancy-pants. Or, you know, skirt. It's undetermined as of yet."

"Sounds good. Meet me there around seven? I can text you the address."

"It's a"— _oh crap, don't say date—"_ plan."


	11. Metamorphosis

Chapter 11: Metamorphosis

The combination of romantically dim lighting and six-foot-tall faux marble elephants initially made Jane difficult to spot. When a delicate wrist adorned with an enormous, clunky bracelet of sea glass emerged from behind a family of pachyderms, Daria nervously adjusted the tan cashmere sweater Quinn had given her ("It almost makes it look like you have _boobs_ , Daria! You're welcome!") and walked toward Jane.

Passing flowering tropical plants and stone pools filled with petals, the flustered brunette noted her longtime companion was taking in her riding boots and knee-length black pencil skirt with an unidentifiable expression on her face. _I imagine my face is similarly perplexing—whether due to the irrational fear of an elephant uprising and subsequent trampling, or because Jane looks like she should be emerging from the sea on a clamshell in that green silk tunic._ _Crap! I'm already standing in front of her._ "You look," she glanced at Jane's deceptively nude-colored leggings, "nice."

Jane smirked, colored slightly, and shot back, "Thanks. And Lawndale would be riveted, if somewhat shocked, by the sight of you in that sweater." She winced visibly and shut her eyes, instantly realizing the implications of what she'd just said.

Daria suppressed a laugh. "Jane, it's okay. I'm finding…that I can't stop looking at you, either."

Opening her eyes, the embarrassed painter gave a self-conscious half-smile and tilted her head in the direction of the waiting table she'd reserved on the drive to Boston. "We might as well be awkward over there, where there's naan."

"Lead the way to the flattest of breads."

Throughout the eating of naan, the inspection of menus, and well into the meal itself, the conversation continued to limp along like a nervous duck with a missing flipper. Jane had run out of questions to ask about her friend's job at the newspaper, and Daria was now well into her second glass of water due to a dire miscalculation regarding the spiciness of an innocent-looking curry.

All of a sudden, a resounding _clang_ rang out and was quickly accompanied by the expensive sounds of shattering glassware. Daria paused in her frantic hydration session to observe the contained chaos unfolding at a nearby table, where an elderly woman had just sprung from her chair to escape a flood of white wine. Her dapper companion wore a shocked expression and tikka masala sauce.

A sharply-dressed manager arrived and began berating the sheepish waiter. "Darn it, Bruce, you gotta get your head in the game! This old guy is _covered_ in sauce!"

"Pardon me, but I'm only sixty-fo—"

"Sit tight, buddy, I'm talking to Bruce."

Daria saw her friend's eyes widen as she slowly turned to face her companion. "Oh my god. Isn't that…?"

"Steve the Steam Shovel, as Kevin and his compadres referred to him?" Daria squinted and took another look. "Yup."

Jane was soon consumed by an unstoppable fit of laughter. "Do you remember," she could hardly breathe, "when he decided to 'carb load' in study hall the day of a big game? He ate a dozen hard-boiled eggs—"

"Which are low in carbohydrates." Daria smirked, amused.

"And then," Jane smacked the table for emphasis, "he threw up in the trash

can—"

Daria was laughing now, too. "And he ate twelve more eggs in science class."

The two old friends laughed (and in Jane's case, also snorted occasionally) for several minutes until both were finally able to take a few deep breaths. Afterwards, their conversation found its familiar rhythm—with inside jokes shared and cynical commentary traded—until the staff began extinguishing the small oil lanterns on each table. The end of the evening found Jane and Daria holding hands as they walked down the starlit sidewalk, comfortable with this new metamorphosis.


	12. Aren't We Supposed to Love Camping?

Chapter 12: Aren't We Supposed to Love Camping?

The month that followed was a warm haze of movie nights and afternoons spent sketching and writing in coffee shops, accompanied by a steady stream of snark and kisses. Suddenly the pair found themselves at the tail end of July on a bright and cloudless Saturday morning, drinking coffee in Jane's sunny studio apartment kitchen. Daria was considering the near-perfect match between her dear one's eyes and the vivid blue sky behind her when Jane's brow suddenly furrowed above her enormous yellow mug. "Oh god," she said flatly. "I can't believe it's already D-Day. What time does Willow and Coyote's twenty-fifth anniversary shindig kick off, again?"

"Four o'clock. Then dinner, probably involving lentils in some form, and then Mystik Spiral plays."

"Thank you, Trent, for bringing both our families together. I think he's ninety percent of the reason mine is attending—after all, my parents are out of the country so often they hardly talk to the Yeagers. Although it _is_ nice that your mom recommended the band."

"Who knew she was such a fan of distorted seventies rock covers?" Daria smirked and then gazed into the black depths of her coffee. "I've been trying to predict how they'll react when I tell them you're my girl—um."

Jane looked amused and raised an eyebrow. "I've never been someone's girl-um before." Seeing Daria's apparent misery, she quickly changed tactics. "You know what? I think it's going to be okay. Our families have watched us flounder from one unsatisfying, failed hetero relationship to the next over the years. Don't even get me started on Wine-Snob Jeffrey," she teased.

Daria smiled. "If you lay off Jeff, I might let you forget about Enzo and his intolerable kettledrums sometime this century."

A short laugh from Jane. "Fair point. Anyway! After watching the Wheel of Dissatisfaction spin us through our straight dating lives for so long, maybe our parents are ready for us to sit under the rainbow and be happy. I mean, look how great my mom and dad were about Trent."

"It's not Amanda and Vincent I'm worried about."

A pause. "I know. Helen and Jake are something else entirely, and I say that with great affection. But no matter how they react, don't forget your girl-um"—a mischievous smile—"your girl _friend_ will be right there next to you."

This won a warm smile from Daria. She took Jane's hand in hers, and then she caught a glimpse of the black cat clock on the wall (complete with swinging tail pendulum). "Crap! It's already a quarter to twelve. Do you know how far it is to the campground?"

"Trent said it's about two hours from here. Did you bring clothes with you, or do you need to go home and get ready?"

"I've got everything in my backpack. Your tent has a rain cover, right? I heard it could storm later."

"Oh yes, Enzo insisted on the rain cover. God forbid his precious kettledrums should get wet."

"He brought them _camping_?"

"Don't ask. So, do you want to shower first or should I?"

"You go ahead. I'll continue to obsess over what I'm going to say to my mother."

Daria's strategy for breaking the sapphic news to Helen wasn't the only thing she contemplated while Jane was in the shower. She also pondered the perpetual state of excitement and terror she'd been living in since she had first asked herself a very big question: when was she going to have sex with Jane, and what exactly would that be like? She had done some light reading on the subject, and the mechanics were fairly straight-forward. It was the enormous emotional weight of the rite that demanded more consideration.

Her thought bog was soon interrupted by a radiant Jane, wrapped in her threadbare chartreuse robe and holding out a towel. Before long, Daria had showered, dressed, and helped Jane load the tent into the car. They would be taking Daria's secondhand hybrid since her girlfriend's rusty station wagon wasn't exactly reliable.

Three hours, two wrong turns, and several energy drinks later, they stood facing a crowd of mostly unfamiliar people under a white and yellow striped party tent. Daria took a deep breath, both to steady her nerves and to fill her lungs completely with the mountain air and its intoxicating notes of pine, dew, and wood smoke. She looked heavenward at the circle of azure sky ringed by 100-foot trees, and then she shifted her gaze down to trace the trails winding to colorful tent sites nestled in the forest. Before she could ask Jane which charmingly rustic (if gnat-filled) site they should claim, the sunny and self-possessed voice of Quinn rang out from the direction of the party tent.

"Well _hi_ there, Daria! I see you brought your amiga today."

Daria took in Quinn's impossibly haute-couture Nature Girl look as she approached: knee-high shearling boots, a flowing shabby-chic shift dress, and an artfully tarnished bronze cuff that could incapacitate a goose with an ill-timed gesture. The elder sibling rode an unexpected wave of warm, sisterly feeling and wrapped the absurdly fashionable redhead in a brief hug. "Hi, Quinn. I see you're dressed for bear fighting and mountain scaling."

Quinn stepped back, amused. "I would have worn a hoodie and baggy cargo pants with far too many pockets, but between the two of you, I think you have that covered."

Jane laughed. "How's the party so far?"

"Oh, you know. Willow and Coyote have been reminiscing with Mom and Dad about their commune years. Some bearded people we don't know are setting up the vegan buffet now." Suddenly, her eyes sparkled. "One of them is wearing a t-shirt with a quote by one of those dead French philosophers you like, Daria. Want me to introduce you to him?"

The uncomfortable brunette reddened. "Oh boy, I'm just so excited about the many varieties of quinoa we're about to enjoy that I can't endure another thrill. But thanks for the offer."

Jane quickly euthanized the awkward conversation with a question. "Have you seen Trent and Tom?"

"Yeah, they're setting up their tent over there." Quinn gestured toward two distant figures struggling with a yellow rain cover.

Jane looked at her secret girlfriend. "We should go help them."

"Good plan. Later, Quinn."

The pair fetched their own tent from Daria's car and claimed a spot next to Trent and Tom, who immediately gave them enormous hugs and accepted their help with the rain cover. When both tents had been assembled through a group effort, it was time to join the rustic and informal anniversary dinner starting under the striped canopy. Daria and Jane found themselves seated with Trent, Tom, Quinn, and the Yeagers' son Ethan. It immediately became clear that Quinn had picked up where she'd left off years before in her pursuit of the younger Yeager's attention. Although his brown hair had been cropped short, his quiet cynicism and apparent immunity to Quinn's overtures remained. An amused Daria nibbled her mango tofu tacos as she took in her sister's frequent hair tosses, arm touches, and giggles on the other side of the green gingham tablecloth. Suddenly, she felt a familiar touch on her shoulder.

"Daria!" Helen Morgendorffer, somehow appearing polished even in a fleece vest and jeans, looked down into her daughter's face and smiled. "I didn't see you girls come in." She turned to face Jane. "Did you get your tent all set up? I heard it might rain later."

"Yup, all ready to go."

"Good. I hope it doesn't get too chilly tonight—you two might be huddling for warmth!" The mortified pair exchanged a quick glance and then laughed along awkwardly with Helen. Daria could swear she saw Tom raise an eyebrow at Trent.

"Well, I'd better get back to our table. Your father is drinking Coyote's home-brewed beer and might tell another distressing childhood story any minute. See you all after dinner!"

When Helen had gone, the rest of the meal passed with a largely successful attempt at casual conversation on the part of Daria and Jane. Soon the tables were pushed aside and it was time to make room for Mystik Spiral. Its members looked slightly less grungy than five years before as they stood silhouetted against the sunset, tuning up their electric guitars and sending feedback into the rustling trees. Trent grabbed the mic. "Hey everyone, we're Mystik Spiral. We want to wish a happy twenty-fifth anniversary to Willow and Coyote."

Applause and whoops rang out on the evening air as Trent counted off the beat for the opening number. For the next two hours, Daria and Jane laughed and drank home-brewed beer as they danced to the sounds of Mystik Spiral—while being careful to maintain an inconspicuous distance from each other. When the amps had been switched off and the bonfire was lit, the enamored and slightly tipsy pair made their way into the woods to find sticks for marshmallows.

Suddenly stopping on the trail with flashlight in hand, Jane broached the topic they had been avoiding all night. "All right, Morgendorffer. It's getting late and you know your parents will be turning in soon—although I suspect mine are just getting started, since I saw them offer their special-occasion mushrooms to Willow and Coyote. Any ideas as to how we should do this?"

"I've been thinking about that. Maybe we can ask our parents to go on a stick-finding expedition, and when we've got them out here in the woods—boom, we kill ourselves."

"Ha! Seriously, Daria."

"Seriously? I like the walk idea, but with more talking and less suicide."

"I like it. Okay, should we head back and get this over with?"

A heavy sigh from Daria. "I suppose. Just let me get this leaf out of your hair first."

The leaf retrieval quickly turned into giggling and kissing, which preoccupied the pair so much they didn't hear footsteps approaching on the path. They did, however, hear Quinn's ear-piercing shriek when she nearly collided with them. Hurriedly jumping apart, they could hear the remaining party members scrambling through the brush as Jake yelled out, "Oh my god, Quinn! Is it a bear? No bear's going to eat my daughter!"

The girls' families and several party-goers they didn't know skidded to a halt in front of them, fixing their flashlights on three bewildered faces. Jake was the first to break the silence. "Quinn! Was there a bear?"

This was one of the rare occasions in Quinn's life when she couldn't find any words. Seeing that her sister wasn't going to be much help, Daria anxiously cleared her throat and replied, "There wasn't a bear, Dad. Quinn… Quinn saw me and Jane kissing."

Silence.

Then the _clack_ of Vincent's professional camera as he captured the moment for all time, and then more silence.

Suddenly Amanda gave a single, excited clap and exclaimed, "That's marvelous news. You girls have finally heard the sapphic call that went unheeded for so long!"

Still more silence, and then Jake chimed in with an enthusiastic, "Yeah! I'm happy as long as my little girl is happy."

Daria shifted her gaze to Helen, who wore an entirely unreadable expression on her face. She sounded slightly uncomfortable as she joined in with, "Sure! Whatever makes you happy, honey. You know I've always loved Jane!"

Amanda chirped, "Who's up for celebratory Peruvian Pisco Sours back at the campsite?"

Temporarily dumbstruck, Jane eventually stammered out, "Okay, Mom. Pisco Sours it is." She hesitantly took Daria's hand and walked with her down the forest path under a surprisingly cloudless sky. Moonlight filtered through the ancient trees, lighting up their marveling faces as they approached the roaring bonfire.


	13. Anatomical Heart

Chapter 13: Anatomical Heart

 _Clang!_ Jane popped one eye open and remembered she was in Daria's bed, not her own.

"Crap!" Her girlfriend's voice traveled from the tiny kitchen at the upper threshold of a whisper. Sensing she was trying to be stealthy, Jane closed her eyes with a smirk. She was lying on what had already become her side of the full-size bed in a room that screamed "Daria" with its relics of the past and portents of the future. To her right were, in order: Daria's empty spot under the orange comforter; a tall window with olive drapes and ancient sill nearly touching the floor; and a six-foot high bookshelf that held Daria's most precious tomes and was crowned by her human skull replica from high school (now updated with a dripping candle topper whose color changed periodically). Jane was watched over by the anguished and contorted animals of Picasso's "Guernica" on one wall and a blue-gowned Jane Austen on the other.

Hearing footsteps approach on the squeaky, scuffed dark wood floors, Jane opened her eyes to see Daria walking through the doorway in her tan sleep shirt and boxers. She was carefully balancing two steaming cups of coffee, a plate stacked with some sort of cookies, and an envelope on a shiny metal platter. Jane refrained from offering a greeting just yet, as Daria's eyes were fixed on the tray and she'd rather avoid an A.M. cookie shower. When the laser-focused young woman had carefully placed the platter on the bedside table, Jane sat up and met her eyes with a tiny smile. "Whatcha up to there, Morgendorffer?"

"I went to the bakery for those kolaczkis you like yesterday—the kind your dad brought back from his Polish Grandmas Run Amok photojournalism trip?"

"Ah yes, 'Babunias Gone Bzikowaty.'" Jane's eyes sparkled. "Daria! You know anything with heart-stopping amounts of cream cheese makes me weak in the knees, and probably in several vital organs as well." She leaned over for a kiss. "Thank you."

Daria grinned sheepishly and then handed her a raspberry-filled kolaczki and a cup of coffee. "No problem." She picked up the pearly gray envelope and sat down on the bed. Her voice draped in uncertainty, she asked, "What would you say if I told you that the Empress of Perkiness and Ruler of the Bosomy Blonde Isles, Brittany Taylor, is getting married in a sunset ceremony on the beach in just over three weeks?"

Pausing mid-chew with knit brows, Jane swallowed her kolaczki and replied, "I would say I'm less surprised than I was when I saw what the babunias did to that mailman." No response. Observing Daria's pensive face, Jane realized she was struggling to say something. She leaned back into the pillows and lightly nudged Daria with her foot. "Hey." Daria met her eyes. Jane asked gently, "Are you okay?"

A sigh escaped the (at least temporarily) tortured writer. She took Jane's hand. "I wanted to ask if you'd be my date." A look of surprise moved over Jane's face like a passing cloud. _Well, of course she's asking me to be her date for the wedding. We've been together over two months now, and even though I didn't form an unlikely bond with Brittany the way Daria did, I still know some of the people who will be there. Oh, LORD._ Daria broke into her thoughts. "Um, Jane? Your face looks like it's under siege by warring factions of emotion."

With a little shake of her head, Jane snapped out of it. "I'd love to be your date. I was just realizing how many Lawndale Martians will be there and debating whether to hit 'em with our relationship head-on," she punched her palm for emphasis, "or tase them until they fall over."

"Hmm. Tasers have a proven track record of immobilizing anyone from soccer hooligans to discombobulated grannies. Telling people about us, however," a blush crept up Daria's neck, "provides a chance to show you off. It's a difficult decision."

"A real puzzler."

"We're going to tell them, aren't we?" deadpanned Daria.

"Yup." Jane leaned in, cradled Daria's cheek in her hand, and gently kissed her. "I'd better get going so I can stop at home and change for work, where the children will be waiting with hands full of clay and poor impulse control. Remind me again why parents think a six-year-old can craft a remotely usable coffee mug?"

"I think it has something to do with mammalian instincts and blind adoration." Jane nodded her agreement, and the two of them made their way to Daria's heavy wooden front door. As Jane turned the old brass knob and stepped into the hallway, she noticed her companion's worried expression.

Turning to face her from the hall, Jane saw Daria glowing in the August sunlight that streamed through the living room windows and lit up her coffee table with its anatomical heart, a relic from high school. Daria's pale hand first pushed up her glasses and then held on to the upper arm opposite for dear life. She took a slow, deep breath and said, "I know you've been ready to…get a bit more physical…these days."

Jane raised her eyebrows, stepped back inside, and closed the door. Daria continued, "The thing is—I want that, too. Even if it turns out my collection of blueprints and hat with a light on it can't save me from the Lesbian Hall of Shame. And I wondered if at Brittany's wedding, with its posh hotel rooms by the sea…"

There followed a few moments of silent surprise. Then with a blush and a tiny smile, Jane tilted her head to the side and softly said, "That sounds perfect." She quickly closed the distance between herself and a miserably awkward-looking Daria and wrapped her in a strong, comforting hug. After standing that way long enough to set some sort of record for Friends Turned Lovers Locked in a Terrified Embrace, the pair shared a brief and tender kiss. Daria opened the door for Jane and said goodbye.

Jane was soon sliding into the driver's seat of her rusted but lovingly maintained station wagon. She leaned back and closed her eyes, heart full and fluttering. _Didn't see that one coming. Good thing I've done a little audio-visual research on the topic already. I've got the virus on my laptop to prove it, but I can't take it to Upchuck—he may get overstimulated and have an early cardiac episode._ She opened her eyes and raised them to the third floor of the converted 1920s office building she had just left. _So Daria is ready to…god, I can't even use the word yet. It's so big. With her general fear of human intimacy, I didn't expect this for a while. Maybe it's different with me than it was with guys? The last thing I want to do is rush her._ She put the old wagon in drive. _But this is great! Not scary at all. Right._


	14. Siren Song, Part I

Chapter 14: Siren Song, Part I

A light breeze carried scents of salt and sea grass as it lifted Daria's hair from her neck. The surf's distant roar and the plaintive cries of gulls accompanied their hollow footfalls on the boardwalk as she and Jane approached the massive, cream-colored edifice where Brittany Taylor's wedding guests would spend the evening. As Jane briefly stopped to swing her black utilitarian duffel bag to her other shoulder, Daria squinted through her glasses and saw that Brittany was having a mid-afternoon lunch with her soon-to-be-husband on the chic patio. Through she was nearly obscured by artfully trimmed bushes and flowering tropical plants, there was no mistaking her platinum blonde hair (now in a sleek bob) and the gravity defying, Jessica Rabbit-esque chest torpedoes that threatened to conquer her Great Prairie State University t-shirt.

Daria gently touched Jane's arm, breaking the trance she'd fallen into as she watched wave after wave roll up the sandy shore, and remarked, "Modern-day Betty Boop at ten o'clock." Wide eyed and cautious, Jane slowly turned her head toward the patio like an owl in need of oiling. Daria carefully brushed an errant lock of hair from her eyes, leaned close to her, and murmured, "Or we can walk into the ocean and pledge fealty to the Sea Monkey King."

This earned a wry half-smile from Jane. "I've already spotted a dozen perfectly pocket-sized rocks."

"All right then—we have a back-up plan."

The amused artist cocked an eyebrow at Daria and reached out to take her hand the way they'd discussed. As Jane had put it late one night in her studio apartment's twin size bed (amid an eclectic assortment of colorful paintings and disturbing sculptures), "May as well go full-on Indigo Girls at Dinah Shore Weekend from the start." By the time they had climbed the two shallow steps to the patio, their hands were clamped together in a mutually blood flow-restricting grasp that Daria believed would prove impossible to break until Brittany's anticipated squeaks of surprise had subsided.

A sudden yank on Daria's hand sent her stumbling forward as Jane caught her foot on a board, yelped, "Crap!" and nearly fell face-first into a potted palm. Daria reflexively shot out her free hand to steady her and wound up with a handful of purple plaid and boob as Brittany and her fiancé Terrance Bloom looked on, their mouths perfect "o's" of surprise. _Well_ , Daria thought, _that's one way to be up-front._

There was a flurry of motion as the almost-newlyweds leapt from their chairs, nearly toppling a mimosa in the process, and Brittany squeaked, "DARia! Jane! Are you both okay?"

Jane straightened her shirt as Daria awkwardly shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and replied, "Nothing that can't be fixed with a well-timed head trauma and accompanying amnesia for everyone on the patio."

Brittany hurried past the table and threw her arms around Daria as Terrance (tall, black, and shockingly nerdy) chuckled to himself, apparently delighted by his fiancée's irrepressible enthusiasm. Brittany exclaimed, "Get in here, Jane!" as she encircled the surprised young woman in an outstretched arm and pulled her into a group hug. Stepping back, the bubbly blonde extended a hand for Terrance to take and gently pulled the bashful man forward.

Daria could see he was in his early thirties. He wore large 1950s-style horn rims over his wide, kind eyes and sported a tan sweater vest with his polka-dotted bow tie and collared shirt. His slender frame towered over Brittany as she beamed up at him and then turned to the two young women, saying, "This is Terrance. He's a HISTory professor at Great Prairie State." She winked and went on, "He wasn't MY professor, though. And babe, this is Daria and Jane from HIGH school."

Terrance smiled and graciously shook their hands. "Britt has told me all about the famous Daria and Jane. Daria, I understand we have you to thank for Brittany passing her College Algebra course so she could get her degree."

Brittany added excitedly, "I do the WEATHer for a local T.V. station now." Terrance smiled, put his arm around Brittany, and gave her a squeeze. Then he turned to Jane and Daria and asked, "So you two have been best buds since your Lawndale High days with Britt, huh?"

Daria nervously looked to her girlfriend for help. Jane must have sensed her desperation because she quickly cleared her throat, took Daria hand, and said, "Actually, Terrance, these days we're more than buds."

Brittany's eyes widened and she was, for a few moments, speechless. Then a thoughtful look came over her face as she tilted her head to the side to fully take in the pair standing with entwined hands on the sun-washed patio. "Like SAPPho said, 'Love shook my heart like the wind on the mountain rushing over the OAK trees.' The power of mutual female afFECTion has proven itself throughout HISTory, from Queen Berenice and her lover MesopoTAMia in ancient Egypt to Ellen and PORtia today. I'm very HAPpy for you two!"

Stunned, the little group stood in silence until Terrance laughed and pulled Brittany close to him. "I just love her more every day."

Brittany squeaked, "Is it because of my new HAIRcut?"

After a bit more catching up and another round of hugs, they parted ways so the betrothed could get ready for the sunset ceremony and Daria and Jane could check in to their room. Soon, the two young women had risen to the second floor and stood on gleaming bamboo before a wide white door as Daria slid the key card into the lock. She wondered if Jane could see how quietly excited she was to show her the suite.

As Daria swung open the door, she heard a satisfying gasp come from Jane, followed by, "Damn, Daria, where is Jeeves hiding? Because the butler is definitely _not_ invited to this evening's festivities." Her eyes sparkled. "Nor to the wedding."

Daria flushed and gave a short laugh as she closed the door behind Jane, who had dropped her bag on the floor and was approaching the bucket with champagne on ice atop the mantel of the white rock fireplace. When Jane turned to face her with the champagne held aloft and teasingly raised eyebrows, Daria took a mental photograph that she hoped would last forever: a happy Jane standing on the navy rug beside the fireplace with a turquoise ocean rolling behind her, beyond the balcony; a king size bed piled high with pillows in the colors of the sea; and a jacuzzi surrounded by fluffy white towels and encased in bamboo that matched the shining floors. _Of course_ , Daria thought, _the rest of the picture could be nothing but ash and charred limbs and I'd still keep it by my bed just to see Jane standing amidst the rubble._

There was a loud "pop" as Daria's companion pulled the cork, gave a surprised cackle, and turned to fill the two waiting glass flutes with champagne. She turned to Daria with a smirk and asked, "What should we toast to?"

"Hmm. The fact that Brittany isn't marrying Kevin?"

"True—that may have brought about the apocalypse." She picked up both flutes and walked carefully to Daria, then handed her a glass. Jane raised hers and said, "To Brittany and Terrance, who is the opposite of a bewilderingly popular football player who's taken one too many goal posts to the head."

 _Clink_. "To the happy couple."

By the time Jane and Daria had unpacked, smelled all the high-end bath products, and finished their first glasses of champagne, it was time to get dressed for the wedding. Daria was untangling the pendant she planned to wear with her flowing navy blouse and gray velvet jacket when she heard Jane loudly clear her throat behind her. Turning around, she saw her raven-haired consort standing in a bra of violet lace and slim-fitting black pants cropped at the ankle. Her milky white skin was luminous against the backdrop of sky-blue curtains that had been drawn across the balcony doors. She held a white, ruffled shirt on its hanger in one hand as she said to Daria, "So, this thing has a zipper in the back that would require shoulder dislocation to handle myself. Care to help a girl out? There's champagne in it for you."

Already slightly buzzed, Daria smirked and asked, "Is this a ploy to get me, a hapless mortal, to heed your siren song and crash upon the rocks? The rocks are, in this case, your perfect bosoms in that purple bra."

"The longer I can keep you here, the better." Jane reached up to retrieve the bottle of champagne from the mantel, walked over to Daria, and topped off her glass. "Because god knows who we'll run into at that wedding."

Encircling Jane's bare waist with her free arm and letting her hand rest on her back, Daria replied, "I did see four shadowy figures approaching on horseback earlier. Maybe it's the apocalypse after all."

Jane took a sip of her champagne and leaned in to give Daria a sweet, tart kiss. "Nah. Upchuck isn't here, so Pestilence is missing."

Twenty minutes and one make-out session later, Daria and Jane were dressed for the wedding and standing in front of the fireplace. With a final kiss for courage, they linked hands and strode toward the door.


	15. Siren Song, Part II

Chapter 15: Siren Song, Pt. II

Daria was standing on a portable wooden dance floor at the pre-ceremony champagne social as she gazed on the sparkling sand with its neat rows of white chairs and slowly realized the Hulk-like intensity of her grip on the delicate glass. _Just like any other day,_ she told herself as another cheesy love song drifted past her on the breeze. _Any other day when I've been mere hours from ditching my clothes with my best-friend-turned-lover and attempting something resembling lesbian sex._ _I'm fairly certain half the positions in that women's magazine are the result of a size two journalist having a martini for lunch and are not, in fact, real._

With a gentle nudge, Jane directed Daria's attention to the shore line just beyond the flowered arch. Jodie Landon was laughing with a smartly-dressed young man as she held her champagne in one hand and a pair of fuchsia bridesmaid's heels in the other, matching gown floating around her ankles on the breath of the sea. Jane squinted. "Well, that's not Mac."

"Nope."

"Either he's going to extreme lengths to avoid a potential Keven Thompson sighting—which I get—or they broke up."

"Hm. I _would_ like to know how Jodie's doing. Even at the price of canned small-talk with one-fifth of a boy band."

Jane smirked, took Daria's hand, and led the way to the water's edge where the flirtatious couple was standing. After a round of sincere hugs and brief introductions (Jodie's new boyfriend was a sweet do-gooder named Evan who worked for a non-profit), Evan left to get more drinks and the former classmates were alone together. Jodie was the first to speak, eyes sparkling. "So, do you two have something to tell me?"

After a few moments of silence, Jane replied, "Yeah, Daria's pregnant." When her attempt at a joke was met with dead silence, she course-corrected and said, "Actually, she's my girlfriend. A pregnancy would probably result in a lot of confusion and yelling."

Jodie laughed. "I'd say that I'm surprised you two are a couple—but I'm really not."

Daria took Jane's hand and squeezed it. "I'm starting to think we were the last to know. And now we're hopelessly behind schedule on our Gay Agenda."

Jodie winked and said darkly, "You'll never recruit a gay army and lay waste to the institution of marriage at this rate." Acknowledging this lost opportunity, the trio moved on to the task of catching up. Jodie was in law school and adored her bleeding-heart boyfriend, who was apparently missing an animal cruelty protest to attend the wedding. When they arrived at the topic of Brittany's impending nuptials, Jodie leaned in conspiratorially and murmured, "I'm kind of worried Kevin might show up today. He's been sending Brittany poorly-spelled love letters since he heard she was engaged three or four months ago."

Jane's jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she deadpanned, "Oh god, please tell me you have one to share with the group."

A chuckle from Jodie. "No. I'm not sure what Brittany did with them, and I don't know how it went when she met up with Kevin to talk about it, either." Daria and Jane exchanged a quick glance. "The last time I saw her before this weekend was at our final dress fittings, and when I asked her about it, she just looked really sad and said she didn't want to talk about it." Jodie took a thoughtful sip of her champagne. "Then she changed the subject to designer shoes."

Daria remarked, "So Kevin's Byron-esque entreaties couldn't shake our steadfast bride."

Jodie frowned. "I don't _think_ so. But she refuses to talk about it, so it's hard to be sure." She shrugged. "Either way, it's not my business."

Daria spotted Jane giving her a sly, sidelong look that asked _What do you say to that, Morgendorffer?_ Although Daria still adhered to a strict moral code, she was finding it wasn't as black-and-white as in years past. Even if Brittany had cheated on Terrance with Kevin, would she have any moral obligation to warn the groom-to-be? The answer wasn't as easy as it once was. Shaking off this unpleasant reverie, Daria asked Jodie, "So, what's our celebrated pigskin champion up to these days?"

"He works for a car dealership a few hours outside of Boston. Apparently, he's a really good salesman."

Jane let out a "Ha!" followed by, "Maybe Mr. DeMartino was right, and Kevin will own a whole chain of dealerships before we know it."

Jodie replied darkly, "Never underestimate the power of a white guy who looks good in a tie."

It was then that Evan returned with the drinks. Ten minutes later, they were saying hasty goodbyes as the bossy wedding planner and a team of ushers shepherded a crowd of over 200 guests to their seats. After Daria had gotten as comfortable as possible in her wooden chair, she took in the crowd. _Either that's Brittany's grandmother up front wearing enough pearls to sink a yacht, or Zsa Zsa Gabor is here._ Suddenly Jane leaned in close, enveloping Daria in the darkly enticing scent of her perfume, and said under her breath, "We may need to revisit the Apocalypse notion." Daria turned to face her with a slight eyebrow raise. "Charles Ruttheimer is sitting two rows behind us, and he doesn't seem to have a date. Since Brittany never liked him and he doesn't know Terrance…"

Daria finished her thought with a note of confusion in her voice: "He must be here with one of the bridesmaids, despite the fact that none of them seem to be criminally insane."

"Hmm. Have we seen them all yet? So far, I've counted five Swedish supermodel types in offensively pink gowns."

With that, the processional music began and Jane quipped, "Jesus, is that Boys are Guys for string quartet?" Daria suppressed a chuckle as she squeezed Jane's hand and turned to watch the bridesmaids make their way up the aisle. _Here comes the first eight-foot-tall blonde…and the second. Lots of peroxide in the vicinity._ Daria squinted to see the petite brunette who was poised to come down the aisle. As she walked closer, Daria and Jane's handhold grew tighter and tighter until they finally looked at each other with bewildered expressions.

Daria was the first to speak, leaning over and murmuring in Jane's ear, "I guess a love of cheesy magic acts wasn't all they had in common."

Jane responded in a whisper, "She was the least terrifying member of the Fashion Club." Cringing at her choice of words, she added, "With the exception of our beloved Quinn, of course."

"Ha," deadpanned Daria.

"What could make sweet Stacy Rowe decide to court Satan himself?"

Daria considered this as she watched the Fashion Club alum approach, her well-proportioned form accentuated by the clinging gown and a nervous smile on her wide-eyed face. "Maybe she knows something about Upchuck that we don't."

"Buried treasure and a terminal prognosis?"

"Exactly."

After the Maid of Honor—a radiant Jodie—had made her way down the aisle, the last strains of Boys are Guys died out and were replaced by the warm swell of a bittersweet classical tune. The crowd turned in their seats as one to behold a sweetly smiling Brittany at the end of the aisle in a low-cut lace number that would fit right in at an adult video gala—albeit a fancy one with speeches and surf 'n' turf. As she walked closer, Daria saw the bride's eyes were brimming with tears. _Oh, god. I hope they're the happy kind so we don't have to keep Terrance from drowning himself in the seasonal squash soup this evening. But at least there's no sign of Kevin._ She stole a quick glance at Jane, who was observing the proceedings with arched brows. _And as a bonus, the nuptial drama has provided a brief respite from this exotic blend of joy and terror at the top of the lesbian roller coaster—where I wait, literally, to go down._

Brittany reached the top of the aisle without a surprise intrusion from an uninvited meathead, and it wasn't long before the newlyweds were sealing their marriage with a kiss that featured an impressive amount of tongue for an event with so many grandparents in attendance. As Daria and Jane rose to join in the cheers and throw their bird-friendly seeds ("I think there's a dead bug in mine," murmured Jane), Daria felt a wave of undeniable happiness for Brittany. She decided that, what the hell—she'd choose to believe the version of events where Brittany _didn't_ cheat on her new husband. For now.

Ten minutes later, the sun had vanished beyond the horizon. Daria and Jane found themselves seated beneath the vast, starry sky and lines of white string lights as they held hands beneath their currently deserted table. Just as the anxious couple was about to head for the buffet of dressed-up finger foods, a nasal male voice inquired from behind them, "Mind if we join you, ladies?"

Daria looked up into the smirking face of Charles Ruttheimer and immediately saw he had his arm around a smiling Stacy. _That explains the less-disgusting-than-normal salutation._ Daria opened with, "Hello, Charles. And Stacy, it's been a long time."

With a twinkle in her eye, Jane turned to the sweet brunette and said, "Blink twice if you're being held captive," then tipped a wink at Charles.

Stacy giggled and replied, "Well, my _heart_ has been held captive since May. That's when Charles DJ'd for a polka party at my nursing home." Flustered, she clarified, "Well, not _my_ nursing home. I don't live there or anything. I just work there."

Charles growled, pulled her close, and kissed her blushing cheek. "My lady has it all—a heart the size of Boston and a smokin' bod hot enough to melt glass." He put on a stage whisper and said from behind his theatrically raised palm, "She's the CNA with the T and A."

A clearly amused Stacy shrieked in delight and then scolded Charles unconvincingly with a, "Honey! You're so bad!" Jane looked at her girlfriend, flabbergasted, as Daria considered the mutual benefits of a relationship pairing Stacy's insecurity with Upchuck's relentless sexual adoration. As much as she hated to admit it, it made sense.

By the time the four of them had retrieved food and gotten caught up, the frighteningly efficient wedding planner had already cornered the DJ on the dance floor. She towered over him in skyscraper heels as she tapped her clipboard insistently and he nodded along with whatever she was saying. When she hurried away to her next victim, Daria watched the DJ roll his eyes dramatically and continue working at a leisurely pace to set up for the dance.

Soon, the first notes of a syrupy ballad crooned by what must be a troupe of modern-day eunuchs drifted across the cloudless sky and over the calm sea. As Brittany and Terrance took the floor for their first dance, Daria caught a flash of fuchsia in her peripheral vision and turned to see Jodie taking a seat beside her. Jane leaned over her girlfriend, close enough so Daria could smell her fresh herbal shampoo, and whispered to Jodie, "Any sign of our QB?"

Sadness stole into Jodie's eyes as she replied, "Only in written form." She checked to make sure no one else was near by and went on in a hushed voice, "I was holding Brittany's dress in the bathroom when she told me she'd gotten a final letter from Kevin. He wished her well in her marriage and said he'd always love her."

With a slow nod, Jane mused, "The end of an era." Daria looked to the dance floor, where Brittany was gazing up into Terrance's face with an enormous smile as he laughed at something she'd said, then hugged her extra close to him for a few moments. The formerly preoccupied writer smiled, charmed by the sweet display, and turned to see Jane with eyebrows affectionately raised as she watched the couple. When Jane saw Daria looking at her, she gave her girlfriend an uncharacteristically sweet half-smile that released a fluttering funnel cloud of butterflies in the captivated brunette's chest. She reached for Jane's hand without thinking, and they sat in silence that way until the end of the song.

An hour later, the two of them were standing by the cake table and feigning interest as Brittany's aggressively vain father regaled them with tales of what the wedding had cost him. _At least Steve is still fairly sober—unlike Brittany's step-mom._ Daria cringed as she thought back on the moment during the father-daughter dance when Ashley-Amber tried to snap a photo and her breast popped out of her gown.

When Steve left to get another Scotch and water, they got down to the important business of choosing their desserts. Jane inspected the array of cake slices with a calculating gaze, her shining black hair illuminated by hundreds of white string lights. With a small but decisive nod, she reached for the one with the most obscene number of seashells crafted from frosting. She then turned to present it to Daria, who accepted it with a tiny smile that would be nearly imperceptible to anyone but Jane.

Back at their now-empty table, they were just finishing the towering desserts ("A Night on Glucose Mountain," remarked Daria) when hauntingly familiar guitar chords filled the night sky. It took Daria a few moments to realize she was holding her breath. She closed her eyes, reliving the last time she'd heard "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star: those sweet minutes when she'd held Jane in her arms at Trent's wedding dance, awaiting the solitary ache at song's end.

"Yo." Jane's eyes were twinkling. "I think they're playing our song." She gently laid her fork next to her last uneaten bite of cake and rose to her feet as she extended a hand to Daria, who blushed and took it. Jane was leading the way to an inconspicuous edge of the crowded dance floor when the buxom blonde tornado that was Brittany's stepmother stormed past in a manner suggesting she was on her way to inflict some suffering. Jane abruptly stopped, causing Daria to bump into her back. Jane slowly turned to face her with eyes narrowed and a Rorschach blot in red wine adorning her white ruffled shirt. "Dammit," she deadpanned.

Daria squeezed her hand. "I can see by your tell-tale coat of arms that you've been drafted into the Trophy Wife Army." She glanced at Ashley-Amber, now on the other side of the dance floor and berating a waitress. "If you hurry, you can start part one of your initiation: making catering staff cry."

A smirk from Jane. "I'll fetch my purse-sized dog and party drugs. Mind if we run up to the room so I can change?"

Five minutes later, Daria stood before the French doors to the balcony and watched the black waves roll gently up the shore in the moonlight. Brittany's revelers were too far down the beach to be heard, but if Daria leaned close to the glass and looked left, she could see the tiny white lights floating like fireflies in the vast sky.

Startled by a sudden _click_ , she turned to see Jane—in a short, silken black robe that did little to contain her "burst-y" parts, as she once called them—standing next to the roaring, crackling electric fireplace with light and shadows dancing across her chest. "I didn't have a matching shirt," she said quietly. Daria pulled the blue curtains closed.

As she walked to Jane, Daria nearly made a nervous joke about scandalously short robes and their exact penalty in Afghanistan. Nearly. But when she met Jane's vulnerable gaze, all she could do was rush to meet her, shrugging out of her gray velvet jacket and dropping it over a chair on the way. When they met in front of the leaping flames, Daria carefully removed her glasses and set them on the white mantel. She took a deep breath and slid her arms around her girlfriend's lower back just as Jane was raising her hands to gently enclose Daria's face. They made a lovely picture, kissing there before the fire, until Daria suddenly smirked and gave Jane's satin belt a playful tug. Jane snorted laughter as her robe fell open, and soon they were tumbling onto the crisp white comforter with its pile of blue-green pillows, swimming in a radiant sea of breath and whispered exultation.


	16. Christmas Ghosts and Norman Rockwell

Chapter 16: Christmas Ghosts and Norman Rockwell

The scent of espresso hung in the air, sweet and bitter, in the high-ceilinged old coffee shop with its festive pine garlands as snow fell softly outside. Jane turned her attention from the lamp-lit scene beyond the window with its heavy sill to Daria, who was absorbed in a book. Jane took a moment to gaze affectionately on her face, the pale cheek glowing in amber light like a distant star and her hair in a ponytail. Her oversized black cable knit sweater was stretched out just enough to reveal a touch of collarbone. A smile gently tugged at the corner of Jane's mouth.

Suddenly, Daria looked up. She met Jane's gaze and made a show of squinting her eyes suspiciously as she laid down her open book and picked up her coffee mug. She took a sip, donned a warm half-smile, and casually remarked, "So, I recently heard a portly septuagenarian is on his way to spread the good word about capitalism. Will the Lanes be celebrating his arrival?"

Jane gave a world-weary shrug and replied, "Oh, there are a number of ways that could go—but no matter what, it definitely won't be decided until the last possible minute."

"Didn't you take a photo of a dead mouse one Christmas?"

Jane nodded with a snort of amusement mid-sip, causing a small tsunami in her mug of green tea. "Yep, one of my family's brief adventures in world religion. My dad was jet-lagged from his trip to Amsterdam, trying to catch some sleep on the couch. Thirteen-year-old me wanted to know the holiday plan, and—probably to get me to shut up—Dad said we'd be observing the Druidic celebration of death and rebirth known as Alban Arthan. He told me to take a picture of something symbolizing it, so I snapped a Polaroid of a dead mouse and then, being a smart-ass, asked Dad and Trent to clap their hands à la Peter Pan if they believed in rebirth."

"So did the rodent rise from the dead?"

"Nope. We went out to the garage to check."

Daria smirked for a moment, amused, and then abruptly knit her brows. "Was every Lane Family Christmas like that?"

Noting her girlfriend's worried expression, Jane considered how to respond. _Crap. Didn't mean to firebomb our nice time with my off-beat—but mostly sad, I suppose—holiday memories._ Jane cleared her throat and attempted a light tone. "Well, it wasn't like that every year. Sometimes Penny came home from whatever third-world country she was exploring and brought animals with strange skin conditions, which Summer's kids enjoyed. And if Wind was there, we were usually able to get him to stop weeping over his latest divorce long enough to enjoy a goddess ritual or two. There were only a couple of years where it was just me, Trent, and that TV channel that looks like a Yule log."

Daria tilted her head slightly to one side with woeful eyes. "I stand corrected. It sounds just like a Norman Rockwell painting."

Jane jokingly held up her mug for a toast and said, "To families."

Daria _clinked_ her cup against Jane's and replied, "Yup, to families." She paused, then said tentatively, "By the way—I've been thinking." Jane responded with a raised eyebrow. "Since the Lanes aren't really big on ham- and turkey-related Western traditions, and Trent will be spending the holiday with Tom's family this year…well, do you want to spend Christmas with the Morgendorffers?"

Jane considered the proposition. While the idea of an over-stimulated Jake excitedly basting a turkey as he fired off friendly questions was disturbing, it was also sort of nice to be invited to an actual "family Christmas." But would the jolliness level be unbearable? Would there be (oh god) singing? And what was the bedtime protocol for unmarried lesbian lovers?

"Um, Jane."

The slightly flustered artist looked up and abruptly overcompensated for her silence with an enthusiastic, "Yeah, let's do it!"

"Your eye is twitching."

Jane smirked. "Okay, but only because this is all kind of…" She trailed off.

"New?"

"Yeah."

Daria released her coffee mug so she could take Jane's hand. "Don't worry. After we've competed in the neighborhood Gumdrop Mountain competition, you can hang up your Team Morgendorffer snowsuit and relax with a square of our family Santa Claus quilt until it's time to gather round the ol' Steinway and awkwardly belt out 'Baby It's Cold Outside.'"

Jane narrowed her eyes. "Ha."

Daria gave her hand a squeeze. "It's pretty low-key actually. You can expect some ham and presents."

Jane cast her eyes up and to the right, then inquired in an exaggerated tone of befuddlement, "So you're telling me families use this appropriated Pagan holiday as an opportunity to spend time together…and eat ham? And there are gifts that don't involve interpretive dance?"

"You've got it. Christmas is basically a tug-of-war between Hallmark channel sentiment and filthy, shameless greed. But, babe…"

Daria's voice faltered, and Jane remembered how strange and thrilling it had felt the first time her girlfriend called her by Kevin's old term of endearment for Brittany. Daria soon picked up the thread of her thoughts with a sorrowful, "I'm sorry I didn't realize just how anti-Rockwellian your Christmases were back in high school. I should have asked."

Again attempting a tone that was more meringue than lead, Jane fluttered a hand dismissively and said, "Hey, we were teenagers. Who could expect us to notice every little thing happening outside us, especially since what was _inside_ was continual chaos and spanking-new horror at the prospect of living in this particular reality?" Daria dropped her head and closed her eyes, a small smile beginning at the edges of her mouth in apparent acknowledgment of inward-focused Teenager Vision.

Jane continued in an uncharacteristically optimistic tone, "Besides, my love of ham has never steered me wrong. The ghosts of Christmases past couldn't possibly tarnish my joyful anticipation." She slowly lowered her head until she was at eye level with Daria and put on a smirk. "Plus, it's going to be really awkward for Quinn. I can't wait."


	17. Unspeakably Sweet

Chapter 17: Unspeakably Sweet

"Girls, you're here!" A clearly excited and flustered Jake hovered in the doorway of the red brick house, smiling and hurriedly wiping his fingers on the threadbare "Kiss the Cook" apron he wore. He ushered them in, snowflakes in their hair, as he called musically over his shoulder, "HEL-en, it's Daria and JA-ane!" He turned his attention to the snowy travelers. "Did you know cranberries have _seeds?_ My damned cranberry gingersnap pie is going to be chock-full of them unless I can find a cheesecloth. What's a cheesecloth?"

After averting the cheesecloth crisis by assuring Jake he could find one at Payday, Lawndale's soulless big-box store, the girls hung up their coats and followed him into the living room with its shining oak floors. They were taking their seats on the spotless new sofa when Helen came down the stairs with her cellphone to her ear. She paused near the bottom, gave Daria and Jane a quick smile, and mouthed _'One minute'_ before continuing,"Yes, Eric, but they can't _prove_ the varnish company knew how much toddlers would like the taste of it." Jane discreetly raised an eyebrow at Daria, who gave a tiny shrug. Helen strode on into the kitchen as Jake struggled to untie his apron. After a brief battle, he laid it gently over the back of the recliner and sat down with a nervous smile on his face.

Daria cleared her throat and asked, "So Dad, where's the grand marshal of the Christmas Fashion Parade?"

"Oh, Quinn! She's on her way." He arched a brow and continued in a low, conspiratorial tone, "I hear she's got a fella, but we haven't met him yet."

Just then, Helen poked her head into the living room and trilled in her best June Cleaver voice, "Girls, would you like some hot cider?"

Jane met Daria's inquiring gaze with a small nod, and soon they were holding steaming mugs as Helen settled into the armchair near her daughter's elbow. Jane looked into the warm cup framed by her pale hands, her palms half-covered by olive green sweater. _Whoa. Is that a fucking cinnamon stick?_ She took a tentative sip. As the surprisingly good cider filled her with warmth, she felt a smile starting at one corner of her mouth. Jane leaned back into the couch and met Helen's expectant gaze. Raising her mug slightly, she said, "Thanks, Helen, you make a tasty brew." _Jesus Lane, who says that? Am I actually nervous? It's just Helen and Jake!_ She took another sip and furrowed her brow. _But I swear they know what we did at that rest stop on the way here._

Helen leaned forward, peering intently at Jane over her mug of cider. "So," she began sweetly, "what have you and Daria been up to?"

Jane pondered for a moment, looking to the ceiling. "Well, I've been working on a new mixed media piece about Guantanamo Bay." She glanced at her girlfriend, who was pushing her glasses up on her nose.

Daria caught Jane's eye and then replied, "You should see it, Mom. I never knew saltwater taffy could look so menacing. Jane is a genius." Apparently noting her couch mate's fiercely blushing cheeks, Daria hurried on. "And I've been investigating a petting zoo scandal, so that's not going to win me any Pulitzers."

Helen smiled and reached to pat Daria's denim-clad knee. "I'm sure you'll get a chance to prove your journalistic brilliance sometime soon." A cloud passed over her features as she remarked, "Unless you're surrounded by chauvinists and sycophants."

Just then, a delighted Jake paused mid-sip in his cider and exclaimed, "O-o-o, a cinnamon stick!"

Helen sighed, retrieved the remote, and flipped on the TV. An hour later, Jane and Daria were listening to a musical assault on the Grinch's character while Helen checked work emails on her Blackberry and Jake struggled with a newly-acquired cheesecloth in the kitchen, his happy humming of "I Saw Three Ships" punctuated by an occasional "Dammit!"

When the front door let in a sliver of afternoon light, followed by one end of a positively bulging pink duffel bag, Daria got up to help Quinn navigate the threshold with her assorted gift boxes and be-wheeled suitcase in tow. Jane watched her girlfriend carefully place Quinn's brightly wrapped presents under the enormous (if fake) pine tree by the windows, its twinkling branches bending from the weight of shoddily made elementary school creations and twenty-five years' worth of keepsake ornaments. It was unspeakably sweet.

When Quinn had re-established Pink Dominion over her teenage bedroom and sat down in Jake's vacated chair with a fashion magazine at the ready, Jane broke the undeniably awkward and growing silence with a question. "So Quinn, heard from the Fashion Club lately?"

The vaguely amused redhead laid her magazine aside so she could sit cross-legged in the chair. "Stacy is the only one I really talk to, and she's lost her _mind_ and is dating Charles Ruttheimer." With a shrug, she continued, "But she seems happy. Tiffany ran off with some hairy environmentalist guy, can you _imagine?"_ She giggled.

Daria leaned sideways to nudge her girlfriend's shoulder with her own (at which point Jane was sure she saw Quinn blush) and remarked, "A makeup-less Tiffany shouting at oil tankers through a megaphone? Better keep an eye out for other signs of an alien takeover."

Jane quipped, "I did meet a child who could not possibly have been human at work the other day." Quinn laughed, and the conversation turned to New Year's plans.

Before long, the three young women were making a valiant effort to finish the butternut squash spaghetti that had been prepared by a fraudulently enthusiastic Helen, conscious (as always) of her husband's heart health.

When the table was cleared and the dishwasher had long since finished its humming, Jane diverted her attention from _It's a Wonderful Life—_ which was surprisingly good—long enough to see Jake's head drooping and his recently acquired readers sliding off his nose. When he listed into Helen's territory, she gently squeezed his shoulder and asked if he'd like to go to bed. He nodded sleepily, yawned, and asked the girls what their plans were for the rest of the evening.

They stared blankly at each other for a few moments until Quinn broke the silence with, "Well, I _would_ like to see if any of my classmates are back." Jane checked her companion's face for a response and found her own distaste for the idea mirrored there. But then Daria shrugged, undoubtedly recognizing the novelty of Quinn making this request at all, and asked Jane if she'd like to go.

Forty-five minutes later, they were crunching over discarded peanut shells as they made their way to a table in the only dive bar open on Christmas Eve. Quinn wrinkled her nose as she brushed papery peanut skin off a heeled boot, then took a seat at the rickety table. Jane sipped her seven-and-seven as she scanned the room, classic rock and the aroma of ancient cigarettes washing over her. The yellowed walls indicated it hadn't been painted since the smoking ban was passed. Next to the long bar with its tiered rows of glass bottles hung a corkboard completely covered in curling newspaper clippings featuring the Lawndale Lions. In one corner, a lonely pool table sat abandoned on this slow night.

Jane's reverie was interrupted by Daria, who leaned over, pointedly looked at a lone figure on a barstool, and commented just loudly enough to be heard above the music, "Well, the back of _that_ head looks familiar."

Jane followed Daria's gaze to what had to be Janet Barch. She seemed to be leaning with her cheek in one hand while the other was loosely flung over a whiskey glass. Jane furrowed her brow. "She's alone. Do you think we should say hi to her?"

Quinn cleared her throat and said with a teasing smile, "If you two are going to chat with old teachers all night, I'll go say hi to Jeffy." They turned their attention to the front door, where the red-haired jock who had once helped Daria's father free a squirrel had already taken notice of Quinn and seemed to be trying his hardest not to appear too excited.

As Quinn tossed her hair over one shoulder and strutted toward Jeffy, Daria and Jane pushed in their chairs and cautiously approached the figure on the barstool. Janet looked up as they stopped beside her. "Well, girls," she said with a slight slur, "you came home to Lawndale."

Daria gave a nod and asked, "How have you been, Ms. Barch?"

Janet smirked. "Oh, I've been getting by. Lawndale just keeps getting emptier." There was an awkward pause before she abruptly changed directions. "Neither of you ran off and married a _man_ yet, did you?"

Jane could feel herself blushing as she nervously rubbed the back of her neck and replied, "Nope, can't say we've done that. Actually, it's funny…Daria and I are dating. Each other."

Janet's eyes lit up as she unknowingly sloshed her drink on the bar and exclaimed, "Ha! I knew it."

Daria shifted in apparent discomfort and gave her former teacher a small smile. "You successfully inoculated us against the advances of the hairier sex." She appeared to think for a moment and then added, "Eventually. It may have had a sleeper effect."

Janet pointed a drifting finger in the rough direction of the young couple and warned, "Don't…let it…go," before returning her attention to her drink and her head to her hand.

Several hours later, as Jane lay next to a sleeping Daria in the silent darkness of her teenage bedroom, she couldn't stop seeing the pain and regret in Ms. Barch's face. Being careful not to disturb her girlfriend, she slowly sat up and scooted out of bed. As she padded softly toward the kitchen, she heard faint humming just before she noticed the small light over the stove was on.

"Hi, Jake."

"AAH!" The spoon clattered back into the ham brine as he jumped and wheeled around. He clutched his chest, prompting Jane to wonder how she'd ever tell Daria she had killed her father, and then exclaimed in relief, "Oh, Jane! Sorry I'm so jumpy. I was brining the ham."

Jane gave a nervous laugh. "No, I'm sorry I scared you. I was just going to get some water."

When she had filled her glass and was about to say an awkward goodnight, Jake stopped her with a gentle remark: "So, you and Daria seem really happy."

Jane found herself smiling as she raised her eyebrows and replied, "Yeah, we are." After a brief pause, she continued, "Sometimes I wonder why we didn't get together sooner."

Jake nodded and resumed spooning brine over the enormous ham. "Some things take time. Like this ham brine—two whole days!"

Jane laughed out loud. Jake smiled, and they parted more comfortably than they had met.

As Jane slipped beneath the covers, Daria stirred and snuggled into her. When Jane whispered, "I just talked to your dad in the kitchen," she saw Daria's eyes pop open in the dark. With a chuckle, she continued, "Don't worry, our conversation was bland and mostly ham-based."

Daria smiled sleepily, gave Jane a squeeze, and deadpanned, "You may be an incorrigible scamp, darling, but I love you."

Jane breathed in the scent of Daria's hair, remembering the first time she'd heard those words. It was the morning after Brittany's wedding. Jane was carefully making her way across the beachside hotel room, flooded with sunshine, to deliver a cup of coffee to Daria. The wide-eyed writer sat surrounded by green and blue pillows with the white comforter pulled up under her arms, pale shoulders gleaming in the early light, when the words of love tumbled unexpectedly from her mouth just as Jane handed her the steaming mug. Now, kissing Daria's nose, she responded as she had at the beach and many times since. "I love you, too."


	18. Live On-Set at the Curious Carob

Chapter 18: Live On-Set at the Curious Carob

Christmas had come and gone, featuring a truly excellent ham by Jake and only one phone call by Helen regarding the culpability of a toddler-poisoning varnish company. The snow had long since melted, the recovering children's parents had settled for a staggering sum, and all of Boston was alive with colorful roses and zinnias in the late June sun.

Daria watched Jane take off her shades as they reached the top of the stone steps, silently marveling at how she could make even this bland daily gesture sexy. Today, it had officially been one year since they had, well, made out all night in Jane's room. They had come to the Curious Carob Art Cubby, housed in a much larger old building, to mark the occasion and see the opening of a show purported to "celebrate women." Leaning over to peer into the gallery window, Daria noted that while the art indeed appeared to be celebratory (and heavy on vaginas), it had also drawn a fair number of pretentious, bearded hipsters who may already be engaged in explaining feminism to unsuspecting women. She remarked, "There's a solid chance we'll be subjected to social science dissertation recaps and the odd homebrewed beer recipe."

Jane smirked, gave Daria a subtle hip-bump, and pulled open the heavy wooden door. She held it as Daria entered and leaned in to whisper, "That's what the free wine is for."

They stepped into a swirling pool of voices in the surprisingly large room with its high ceilings and rough-hewn wood walls. It was like a kitschy scale model of a barn, if that barn had free-standing partitions featuring some truly horrific birthing scenarios. Daria turned her attention to the black-aproned attendant keeping watch (barely) over the bottles of drugstore-quality wine, admittedly tempting cheeses, and donation jar. She dropped a few bills in for her and Jane since it was her "turn," then they each secured a clear plastic cup of white wine and a small mound of gouda before waddling carefully toward the displays.

They were quietly discussing the physical feasibility of an erotic Sapphic piece ("Maybe if your arm was detachable," remarked Jane) when Daria's eyes flicked to the right and grew wide.

"Shit," she murmured.

Knitting her brows, Jane silently turned to see what had succeeded in flapping her normally unflappable girlfriend. At first she seemed to see nothing, but then her eyes narrowed to slits. "Who let that grape-groper in here?" Jane had always hated Wine-Snob Jeffrey. They saw him in profile, his chin held between thumb and index finger as he looked up at a seven-foot sculpture of a warrior huntress. He was one of the few people still carrying a torch for corduroy pants in the year 2008, and his tall, thin frame was clad in one of his favored short-sleeve button downs. Daria noted with amusement that the combination of his pale blond hair and recently acquired glasses with heavy plastic rims made him look somewhat like a baby chick in disguise. Then she remembered what an asshole he could be, and her smirk disappeared.

Jane was watched her face intently. "You know, we could get out of here if you want," she said gently.

Just as Daria turned her head and opened her mouth to say that yes, it might be a more pleasant anniversary if they did just that, Jeffrey turned away from the huntress. His eyes fell upon the pair and widened in recognition as he interrupted Daria's unspoken thought with a small wave. Jeffrey—never Jeff, unless you wanted to annoy him—moved swiftly through the crowd toward them and stopped a few feet away with a tight, uncomfortable smile on his face. "Daria, hi. And it's Jane, right?"

The lanky artist's cool stare did battle with her polite smile as she answered, "Yep, it's Jane," and extended a hand. He gave it a brief shake and turned to Daria with open arms. Awkward, mercifully brief A-frame hugging ensued.

Jeffrey pushed his glasses up on his nose as he took a step back. "So Daria, how is life as a journalist?"

"I'm sure I'll take down a cinema-worthy mob dynasty any day now. How's grad school?" She recalled he had gone straight from his bachelor's degree to a master's in something that sounded uppity and impractical, although she couldn't remember what.

"Oh, you know." He crossed his arms and smiled slyly. "Hiding out in academia while the economy goes to hell. What brings the two of you to the poor man's Lilith Fair?"

Jane tossed back the rest of her wine and said lightly, "It's a bit of a special occasion."

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Daria looked to the huntress for inspiration, but that stony bitch was no help. "Um." She forced herself to meet Jeffrey's gaze. "It's fitting that we're surrounded by…"

Jane came to the rescue. "Boobs?"

Daria checked Jeffrey's face for understanding. Nothing. Then a storm system slowly stole over his features, leaving his brows knit and his lips a tight line. He opened his mouth to speak and abruptly closed it.

Jane gave what appeared to be her best attempt at a laugh as she flung one arm around Daria's waist and exclaimed, "Who knew, right?"

Jeffrey's cheeks colored as he turned to face Daria. He let out a short, bitter laugh. "So much for that line you gave me about needing time alone, huh?" He shook his head and added quietly, "It took me a year to get over you." There was a seemingly endless pause as he stared at a spot on the floor, and when he met Daria's eyes again, his face was filled with quiet rage. He leaned in until his face was about a foot from hers. Then he whispered, "Why didn't you just tell me you were a _fucking dyke?_ "

Jeffrey blew past them, and by the time he reached the front door, Daria was already a comet shooting toward the bathroom at the opposite end of the gallery. She could feel the tears coming; it was a race against time now. Jane's gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder just as she opened the bathroom door. The two women touching up their make-up at the mirror took one look at Daria's face and bustled out.

The couple slipped into the handicapped stall and Daria stood at first with her back to Jane, shoulders silently heaving and hands over her face as the dam began to break. She again felt Jane's delicate hand on her shoulder. That did it. The soundless quaking became gasping sobs as Daria turned, threw her arms around Jane, and buried her face in her neck. As the storm slowly subsided, Jane squeezed her girlfriend tightly and said in a low voice, "Jesus, Daria, I'm so sorry Jeff was such a douche."

With a little sigh, Daria squeezed back. "This was nothing compared to the time he asked what his signature wine should be and I picked one from Nebraska."

Jane couldn't suppress a snort. "Seriously, though. Are you okay?"

There was a pause, then Daria lifted her head. "You know what? I am. I guess coming out is going to be more of a long-running television series than a Sunday afternoon matinee. I just hope the director cans Jeff after his inaugural performance."

With a smirk, Jane added, "I'm pretty sure a focus group would find him supremely smack-able."

"So, do you think we've adequately celebrated women today, or should we partake in more bosoms and cheese?"

"I'd like to celebrate _you_ ," Jane purred.

Daria's eyes twinkled as she whispered, "I think you'll find there are both cheddar slices _and_ breasts at my apartment."

"Well hot diggity. Let's get the hell out of here."


	19. WASP, Paper, Scissors

Chapter 19: WASP, Paper, Scissors

Daria stood outlined by dusk, the old green jacket a comforting sight to Jane as she observed her girlfriend in profile: chin tilted to the evening's first fireworks, hair down, and hands in faded jean pockets. Not wanting to break her reverie, Jane approached slowly over meticulously groomed grass, rockets whistling and banging overhead as she focused on keeping their glasses of champagne upright. She made her way safely through a posh sea of designer clothing to Daria and delivered her drink.

"Damn, Daria, everybody is dressed up. I'm sorry Trent didn't warn us."

"Considering his oh-so-chic Baphomet on Holiday t-shirt, I'm guessing he wasn't too concerned about it either." She smirked and gave her companion a playful nudge.

"I saw a fucking cravat on the way over here," Jane replied darkly, taking a sip of her champagne.

A brilliant white flash and gut-resounding boom heralded the appearance of Trent and Tom, both mercifully free of ostentatious neckwear. Tom had invited Jane and Daria to join his family at Lawndale's Sedimentary Rock Country Club and Links for a Fourth of July party a little over a week ago. When he'd called, they had been celebrating two years of dating with a candle-lit dinner and a deep discussion about moving in together. Upon hearing that Helen, Jake, and at least one Lane parent would be in attendance, they decided it would be a good time to share the cohabitation news. With Jane returning to art school in the fall, Daria's ever-pragmatic mother would hopefully see it as a sensible move. They were still waiting for their parents to arrive at the Fourth of July celebration when Trent and Tom halted in front of them with hors d'oeuvres in hand.

Trent was the first to speak. "Hey, Janey. Hey, Daria. We found the snacks—they've got tartlets and crudité. Did you have some?"

As they shook their heads in the negative, Tom added, "They're down by the boathouse. By the way, Jane, have you seen either of your parents yet?"

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. "Well, my dad is still in New Mexico. But my mom said she can only work on her Angry Planets installation while the evening shadows are at their longest, so she should be here soon." She paused, then asked suspiciously, "Any special reason you're on the lookout?"

Trent cocked an eyebrow at Tom, who raised his hands in a defensive gesture and laughed. "What? Your sister is gong to find out soon, anyway."

Just then, Helen Morgendorffer's voice trilled out over the night air. "Giirr-rrlls!" They turned to see her approaching with a smiling, tropical shirt-wearing Jake in tow. When the round-robin hugging was finished, they embarked on the business of catching up. Quinn was still working as a dental hygienist, and apparently she was dating someone new that her parents hadn't gotten the chance to meet yet. (Jane feigned surprise and concentrated on keeping her expression unreadable because, as Daria also knew, Quinn's dental office was where Jane got her teeth cleaned. They had a pretty good idea who the new beau was—he was not only one of the dentists Quinn worked for, but he was also married). Meanwhile, Trent had picked up a few more students for private guitar lessons and his husband was working on his dissertation. Jake's marketing consultation business was weathering another rough patch—"You couldn't sell a smoothie to a fruit bat in this economy!"—and Helen continued to crush skulls at record pace in the field of corporate law.

Soon the conversation turned to Jane and Daria's fledgling satirical website, The Poison Parfait. Jake was still trying to wrap his head around it. "So, Daria, you write funny stories…that aren't true…and Jane makes art?" Then, with a puzzled look, "About them?"

Daria smiled at her father's interpretation. "Pretty much, Dad. We've only gotten a handful of views so far, but people love Jane's work."

"Ha!" The raven-haired artist shot back. "It's the writing."

Jane suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder, turned, and was immediately enveloped in her mother's patchouli-scented hug. By the time Amanda Lane had embraced her way around the circle, bracelets jangling all the way, Kay and Angier Sloane had quietly appeared beside their son wearing matching uncomfortable smiles and clothing intended for the deck of a yacht no less than 80 feet long. They bestowed air kisses in the vicinity of Trent and Tom's cheeks and then said their polite "hellos" to the group.

After several moments of squirmingly awkward silence, Angier gestured toward the boathouse with what appeared to be a tumbler of scotch and suggested in his calm, cultured voice, "The fireworks do reflect beautifully on the water. Should we make our way over?" The group gratefully agreed to the short walk and temporary distraction from the Serfs at Versailles situation in which they found themselves. Jane mused on Angier's glass of scotch, recalling bits of Tom Trivia from the days when she'd dated him. _Surely it's from his distillery. Well, the one he co-owns with his brother—like some kind of peasant_. She smirked and slowed to match Daria's pace at the back of the group.

As they fell in step, Daria stealthily took her hand and leaned in to murmur in her ear. "Do you think they're taking us to a field that needs tilling?"

Jane gave an amused snort and squeezed her hand. "Let's hope not. These are my Date Night cargo pants."

Then they crested a small hill to the accompaniment of a popping, crackling gold aerial display and beheld a scene that temporarily silenced their snark. Down the grassy slope lay a stunning tableau beneath the full July moon. High-top tables dotted the shoreline beside the boathouse, their white linen tablecloths drifting in the slow breeze as candles in hurricane glass burned brightly above. Closer yet to the water, white blankets gleamed under the moonlight, several of them having been commandeered by young families. As they got closer, Jane spotted bow-tied waiters with silver trays of hors d'oeuvres among the well-dressed guests and picked up mingled conversation and laughter beneath the distant boom of fireworks. Then she slowed her pace. "Wait a minute. All those blankets on the shoreline…"

There was a flash of mirth in Daria's eyes. "They match."

With a magnificent eyeroll from Jane, they were on their way toward the three Official Sedimentary Rock Country Club and Links Grass Covers selected by their families. As she settled in cross-legged near the lapping water, Jane saw Tom squeeze Trent's hand and give him a reassuring smile. An exploding pink aerial display revealed Trent's unmistakably nervous expression. On an adjacent blanket, Kay and Angier were sitting somewhat stiffly with their drinks next to a thoroughly relaxed Amanda. Helen and Jake occupied the blanket directly behind them, which Jake was furiously brushing free of ants while his wife sipped red wine.

It was then that six people who looked like they should really be in an executive board room safely away from trees and grass called out to Kay and Angier. As they approached, clearly meaning to catch up on the state of their summer homes and stock portfolios, the Sloanes got to their feet and the rest of the group was obliged to do so as well. Jane observed the upper-class pageantry unfolding with interest. These people really seemed to like Tom, if all the claps on the back and age-inappropriate hair tussles were any indication.

When the group suddenly fell quiet, momentarily awed by a particularly brilliant succession of exploding shells in every color of the rainbow, Jane saw Tom turn to face the group and throw back the rest of his gin and tonic. Trent silently put a hand on his back. As the _whizzes_ and _bangs_ grew further apart, Tom smiled hesitantly and began, "Well, everyone, I'd like to share some good news. Some of you already know that Trent and I have been talking about…starting a family." Jane noted plenty of raised eyebrows and sidelong glances among the Caviar Contingent as Amanda smiled encouragingly and Jake nibbled at his chicken satay. The elder Sloanes wore unreadable expressions and seemed to have stopped breathing.

When Tom opened his mouth to continue, he was interrupted by an audible scoff from a strangely smooth-faced, silver-haired statesman type. Tom's brows gathered like summer storm clouds, and then he remarked in an impressively mild fashion, "Howard. You seem surprised."

"I'm sorry Thomas, I may have misunderstood. I thought this young man…" he gestured toward Tom's husband with his empty rocks glass.

Standing up straighter, said husband supplied his name with a calm gaze. "Trent."

The statesman went on, a bit agitated now. "Yes, Trent. I was under the impression Trent was your…roommate." He shrugged his shoulders and darted a glance at Kay and Angier.

Tom looked wordlessly at his mother and father. Kay looked into her martini for support and, finding none, began with flushed cheeks, "Well, Tom, you know we rarely see Howard…"

Tom gave an exasperated snort. "Mom. You saw him at the regatta in May."

After a few moments of stunned silence, Trent squeezed Tom's shoulder and stepped forward. "As my—" he looked coolly at Kay and Angier "— _husband_ was saying, we've been thinking of starting a family. We thought you all would be happy to know we're trying to get on an adoption waiting list."

In the anxious shifting of expensive suit jackets and handbags that immediately followed, it became clear Tom had made a grave miscalculation regarding the level of acceptance among his WASP-y family members and their friends. Jane suspected that Trent had never labored under such an illusion. Mercifully, Amanda chose just this moment to unleash the full power of her fairly woo-woo belief system on the group. "Everyone!" The whiz of a rocket, and then her face was shining beneath a silver cascade. "Join hands and invoke the goddess. Hestia, Teweret, Danu—really any family-oriented goddess will do." She giggled (at which point Jane began to wonder if her evening art session had been chemically enhanced).

Jane watched as a smiling Jake took Helen's hesitant hand and the rest of the group followed suit, creating a circle that was equal parts confusion and discomfort with just a dash of goofy goodwill. Flanked by Tom and Trent on one side and a heavily cologned investment banker type on the other, Daria and Jane exchanged a concerned glance before turning their attention to the definitely-high Amanda. She began, "Join me at the sacred fountain of life, where the pregnant goddess eats figs and plump babies frolic…frolic in the…" Her eyes glazed over for a moment. "Dirt. May the goddess heap blessings as full as her swollen breasts upon Trent and Tom, who deserve all that is good in life."

There was a bewildered pause until the parents-to-be broke the circle with grateful exclamations and rushed to embrace Amanda. This was the perfect time for the Committee of Upper Crusters to slip away quietly, and that's exactly what they did. Daria and Jane squeezed each other's hands tightly as they prepared to deliver their congratulations. Their own news could wait a little longer.


	20. Under Glass

Chapter 20: Under Glass

Daria flipped on the bathroom light and narrowed her eyes at the mound of lipstick-streaked tissues that had become a familiar sight since Jane moved in a month ago. There were also eight different tubes of body paint on the counter, but that was only because they were getting ready for the Boston Museum of Medical Oddities Halloween Party, where Jane would be elaborately costumed as _Water Lilies With Oil Spill_ in a rather perverse nod to Monet.

Daria spotted a bit of black plastic peeking out from the tissue pile and carefully retrieved her hairbrush. When she looked into the mirror, she noticed something odd setting atop the toilet tank behind her. She crossed to pick it up, saw it was a blowtorch, and cast her eyes to the ceiling for help from whatever ancient Goddesses of Fire and Messy Girlfriends might lurk there. As she did, she heard the hollow _thok_ of something rolling into the wall. She bent and picket it up with her free hand. It was…a plastic grapefruit?

"Babe!" A startled Daria dropped the grapefruit and wheeled to face Jane, whose eyes sparkled as she said, "You found my grapefruit. Thanks." She bent to pick up the still-rolling orb, causing the blue towel turbaned on her head to drop to the floor.

Daria felt an affectionate smirk taking over despite her slight annoyance. "At your service. Is it for your mixed media sculpture?"

Jane lightly tossed the piece of plastic fruit up and caught it. "Yep." She peered at Daria through her mussed bob. "Did you decide on a costume for tonight yet?"

Daria gently placed the blowtorch on the counter and walked over to kiss her. "I did."

"And?"

"It's a surprise." Daria gave her eyebrows an almost imperceptible bounce.

Jane tightened the belt on her old chartreuse robe and playfully pointed at her. "Alright, Morgendorffer. You have two hours."

 _I definitely won't need that much time_ , Daria thought.

Two hours later, Jane was adjusting her water lily hat in front of the bathroom mirror when Daria approached and then stopped just far enough away so she wouldn't be noticed. Her brilliant girlfriend was a sight to behold, from the "oil" dripping down one cheek to the asymmetrical black dress and her blue-green limbs with their scattered pink water lilies. Even her lips were lily-pink tonight.

Suddenly, she looked over her shoulder and remarked, "That's a great 'Daria' costume you have on, Daria."

Daria smirked and pulled a handful of rocks from her pocket. "I'm Virginia Woolf."

Silence.

" _And_ my jeans are black." Pause. "For Halloween."

Jane's oil spill undulated as she shifted her weight to one foot in its knee-high black boot. "So, I went to your newspaper's holiday party and listened to Darrel's ten-minute monologue on the widespread misuse of the semicolon, but when I ask you to play along, I get"—she waved a hand searchingly—"rocks."

Daria struggled to formulate a response. It hadn't occurred to her that Jane might take her minimal amount of Halloween effort as disappointing commentary on the state of their relationship. Although to be fair, after over two years of dating, it probably _should_ have occurred to her. "I see your point." And then, sincerely, "I'm sorry, Jane. Do you think you can paint me so I look waterlogged?"

Jane looked to her black cat clock with its swinging tail pendulum and said in a far less irritated tone, "I don't think we'll have time." Her lips thawed and formed a half-smile. "But next year, okay?"

Daria did a mock curtsey, but she meant what she said next. "It would be my honor to serve as your canvas."

Soon the cab had arrived and they were on their way to what they hoped would be a truly weird Halloween party. It did not disappoint. As they entered the Museum of Medical Oddities, they were enveloped in the violet glow of black lights and the haunting strains of what sounded like a metal band on downers. They surrendered their tickets to an attendant who was seated behind a glowing, white-draped table and concealed by a horse mask with frightfully vivid teeth.

As they walked cautiously into the loud and cavernous main display area with its nooks and crannies full of deformed skeletons, wax models of abnormal fetuses, and all manner of growths under illuminated glass, Daria didn't realize someone was approaching behind her until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She spun around to see the Star Trek version of Charles Ruttheimer standing next to his disproportionately hot girlfriend, Stacy, who appeared to be dressed as some sort of sexy Martian. After disingenuously excited hellos, Charles took in Jane's costume (spending a bit too much time looking her up and down, Daria thought) and commented, "Ever the artist, Jane."

Stacy chirped, "And Daria! Are you the artist who painted Jane? Mo…Mo-nett?"

 _Huh. That would have been a good idea_ , thought Daria. She cast an apologetic look at her girlfriend, who was staring into the middle distance. "No, I'm actually Virginia Woolf." She pulled a handful of rocks from her pocket.

Stacy smiled, confused. "Oh, that's…neat."

Daria was soon able to get them off the subject of costumes and on to the whereabouts of Tom and Trent. Stacy directed them down a long hall, one exuberant breast nearly escaping her silver bustier as she pointed the way. Daria and Jane picked up glasses of wine and then walked down the dark corridor, the sounds of sleepy and weirdly apologetic metal music fading gradually as they went. They passed a glass case holding a human skull with a protruding cutaneous horn and followed the passageway right, where they suddenly came upon Trent and Tom examining a shelf full of tiny jars.

There were hugs and greetings all around, this time sincere, and a mutual appreciation session regarding costume choices (Trent was a Werewolf of London in an "I Saw Big Ben" t-shirt, while Tom made for a charming sprinkled donut). But when the topic changed to the couple's adoption progress, the mood shifted.

Tom looked down at his white sneakers, seeming to gather his thoughts, then looked back up and said, "Well, it's a lot harder than we realized. Even though I got that adjunct position a few months back and our money situation is better, we could still be on a waiting list for anywhere from two to seven years."

Daria saw Jane's jaw drop cartoon-style out of the corner of her eye just before she exclaimed, "Seven years! But there are so many kids in foster care."

Trent put a gloved werewolf hand on Tom's shoulder and explained, "You're right, Janey. But if you want to adopt an infant, it can take a really long time."

There was a heartbroken pause, then Daria said confidently, "You're going to make excellent parents. And hopefully it only takes seven year for people who…stitch cats together in their spare time."

Jane supplied, "Or are addicted to cough syrup."

Daria added, "Or suddenly turn off the radio when you're singing really loudly."

Jane elbowed her. "I only did that once."

The guys were smiling now. Tom said, "Let's hope you're right. Because this waiting really does suck."

Trent and Tom soon went to get drink refills and perhaps try some slow-motion moshing, which left Daria and Jane standing alone in front of a row of ominous, tiny jars. Daria leaned in and squinted at the placard beneath one of them. "It's a herpe," she monotoned. "A very, very old herpe."

Jane took a look. "Huh, whaddya know."

There was a pause, then Daria asked, "Jane, are you still irritated with me about my general lack of effort in costuming?"

Jane sighed. "I know it's sort of who you are, Daria."

Daria bristled at the comment. "Right. And it's 'sort of who you are' to leave blowtorches and plastic produce lying around in the _oddest_ locations."

Jane turned to face her, shocked. "You have literally never said a word about my art supplies before."

Daria crossed her arms and raised her eyes to look up at Jane, who was taller than normal in her heeled boots. "Well, since we're airing grievances tonight, it seemed like a good time to mention it."

Jane gave a wry—and in no way warm—smile and raised her voice as she said with mock cheerfulness, "Oh, good! Because I've been meaning to bring up the nearly-empty coffee mugs that are all over the apartment. Last week I found one in the shower, Daria. _The shower_."

Daria tilted her head to one side and smirked. "Oh, the same shower where you secretly sing Boys Are Guys songs and somehow think I can't hear you?" A combination of embarrassment and rage contorted Jane's features as she slowly backed away. Daria quickly began to suspect she had gone too far. "Jane, wait—"

But her girlfriend had already rounded the corner. Daria set off after her, but she proved impossible to find in the enormous main room with its revelers in underwater headbang mode. Daria decided to make her way to the bar area, which was set into a dimly lit alcove off the dance floor, so she could watch the crowd for Jane. She had just sat down at a high-top table with her new glass of wine and pushed the enormous centerpiece of skulls, black candles, and red roses to one side so she could see the dance floor when she heard a voice behind her.

"Excuse me." Daria turned to see a tall, androgynous Dracula with bright red lips and a blonde pompadour smiling down at her. The self-assured stranger continued, "I wanted to tell you how much I like your costume." Seeing Daria's confused expression, she added, "I saw you explain it to the bartender. I love Virginia Woolf, so…"

Daria gave a small smile of gratitude and said, "Thanks. Not a lot of devotees out there these days. And that's a nice Dracula costume, too."

The charming young woman toyed with the medallion on its satin ribbon at her throat, winked, and replied, "I thought it might help me pick up girls."

Daria snorted a laugh into her wine glass and set it back on the table. "You should meet my old classmate, Upchuck. He would appreciate that sort of brazenly cheesy line." Seeing the hurt expression on her companion's face, Daria went on, "Look, I'm sorry—um—"

"Toni."

"I'm sorry, Toni. It's been kind of a rough night. My girlfriend is thoroughly pissed at me and I can't find her."

Toni took a step closer. "So she's off doing goddess-knows-what?"

"No, definitely not."

Toni grasped her cape in one hand then slowly and melodramatically raised it to screen them both from the dance floor. With twinkling eyes and whiskey-heavy breath, she said in a stage whisper, "But she's not here." As Toni closed her eyes and leaned in to close the last few inches between them with a kiss, Daria leapt from her chair before their lips met and spilled her wine on the table in the process.

The brunette's cheeks glowed with anger as she deadpanned, "Much like the mythical Dracula, you don't show a lot of concern for others. I said I have a girlfriend. And we're happy."

But one of them was most certainly not happy when she spoke the words.

Daria hadn't seen Jane as she emerged from the crowd and spied her girlfriend's shoes beneath the cape, so close to a pair of pointed black boots that it was difficult to believe they were doing anything but kissing. She hadn't seen Jane put one hand over her mouth as her eyes filled with tears and she dashed back into the crowd. By the time Daria had convinced Toni to leave her alone and cleaned up the spilled wine, Jane was already wiping away running mascara and blue-green paint in the back seat of a speeding taxi.


End file.
